


Fledgling Gods- the first edit

by orphan_account



Series: Old drafts [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Car Chases, Cats, Crack, Crime, Disabilities, F/F, F/M, Fast Cars, Fluff, Hijinks, Hospitals, Idiots in Love, Jack Hallowell's snazzy sense of style, Katie Sherwood is an anarchist, London, London is on fire, M/M, Manipulative Bastards, Nadiya and Addison are so totally married, Period-Typical Attitudes, Prophecy, Proposals, Sarcasm, Science and reality, Shenanigans, Spies, Time Travel, Timehopping, Vintage Cars, War, War Stories, Yeah... sorry about that..., alcohol consumption, also snakes!, antique bookshops, awesome playlist, best of queen, dogs!!!!, epic good-versus-evil struggles, houseplants, incredibly reckless badassery, major historical events and characters, there's a cult, twisting timelines for the benefit of mankind, vengeful gods
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 03:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 27,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18791797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Every story has a point where things could go wrong, and, a lot of the time, things will do just that.”The city of London is in chaos.Pulling the strings somewhere, in a warehouse near Canary Wharf, there’re shadows, and reality dances at their fingertips. It’s all anyone can do not to crash and burn when the forces of nature are marshalled by the hand of one less than mortal.A lot of the time, things go wrong.The city has its protectors, of course. It would be foolish to assume that it’s left at the mercy of the universe. But things go wrong, because it’s inevitable. Things always go wrong.And sometimes, it takes a  thief-turned-bookseller, a highly reluctant demolitions expert, a government official Who Knows More Than She Should, a prophet adrift in the twenty-first century, a maybe-immortal with a sense of humour, and a madwoman in a fast car; to step in and set things right again.The future’s blazing. History is afire. The city of London is in chaos, and it’ll never be the same again.Book One in the Gods of London sequence.





	1. -1: Pernoctation in the Sleeping City. (Or, the mandatory prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> so this is my novel, which I've been working on for the last year and a bit. Updates will be sporadic because I've only written up to part three and I'm editing as I go- if you want to know more, check out my Tumblr, @Vintagecar-But-Onfire. 
> 
> Buckle up, it's going to be a long and dangerous trek to the end...
> 
> Constructive criticism is much appreciated!

-1 Pernoctation  
The fog rolled in, sheets of grey cotton-wool settling around the great city like a blanket, or snowfall. It came quietly, invading the winding streets and creeping through the gaps in window frames and under doors, muffling the winter traffic and turning streetlights into sickly spots of weak colour. Cars blinked, catlike, the beams of their headlights barely cutting through the grey backdrop and dulling as the haze seethed and fought back. It spread in long, curling tendrils, choking out the sky and veiling the setting sun. It stuck, closing in, hanging like frozen pea-soup in the air, tainted with watery spots of alien colour and the blacker shadows of alleys and skyscrapers. The haze was everywhere; boiling from the surface of the Thames like something alive, like some Lovecraftian horror rising from a millennia-long nap at the bottom of the abyss; and hiding in the nooks and crannies everywhere around the city-- and stopping, becoming stagnant. It cut out sound; cut out life, and settled in for the night, content.

London was quiet. Well, not exactly quiet- it was never quiet – but it was as quiet as such a city can be at such a time. The fog had bought with it a sense of eerie tranquillity, and the city held its breath for a while in the almost-calm. Because, against all laws of logic, the city was quiet. None of it mattered, because London was quiet, and that was reason enough to pause.

Somewhere, a siren from the depths of the miasma. Police, possibly an ambulance. The sound shattered the frigid calm with a tremulous wail as a red-blue blur was visible for a moment. It flashed and flickered, burning briefly through the grey before going screaming back beyond the line of sight and into the cloaking darkness.

People breathed the air like smoke, cold breaths curling upwards on a weak and sickly breeze.  
A tattered flyer fluttered half-heartedly and fell, corners curling and coloured lettering distorted and bleached by past rainfall.

The glass panes of an old phone-box rattled in their settings and shivered, red paint flaking; like so many dead leaves; to fall to the ground and be lost in the grey. Fog became pavement and pavement became air as the city was hidden from the world, light seeping out from windows and bleeding onto ancient ground as the sun finally set.

Sunlight is the best cleaning agent, and there was so much more to London now that the few still awake found themselves missing the sunlight, wishing that the long, grimy night would end. Christmas had been and gone, and the northern hemisphere was more than halfway out of the dark. But the winter uneasiness remained, and the minds of all were full of fires and hearthrugs and hot chocolate and the longing for warmth and stability. And the darkness clung to every street-corner and cab-stand, hiding things which best remained visible and turning every half-frozen puddle into patches of murky light which blinked like promises.

The intermittent clack-click of a train pulling into station echoed through the near-deserted streets, the 10:15 from Salisbury. Four minutes late. The brakes squealed, passengers flitting through the doors like coffee-fuelled spectres and vanishing into the twisting side-streets. Disappearing into obscurity, as if they’d never been there at all.

The soft chattering of escalators could be heard from below as another train crawled to a stop, the tunnels like veins and the electricity humming through them the blood of the city. Metal sang against metal as London’s pulse became thready and sluggish and the doors hissed closed.

 

And the winter night deepened. And the bustling metropolis dropped, like a stone thrown into a lake, into a state of not-quite-sleep. Because London never slept, not really, but existed in a kind of half-stasis until the world woke it up again.


	2. 1: Abditory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's nearly three in the morning in London, and Rudyard Barnes is awake...

The air was filled with salt and rust, and the sound of fingers tapping on age-worn metal. It was the Witching Hour, that eldritch time between midnight and one-o’clock where the seconds themselves are fluid. A lone figure, silhouetted against iron girders by thick orange beams of light, turned to face the water.

A hackney-carriage - one of thousands of identical vehicles across the city - rumbled past, tires crunching on asphalt and sploshing through deep puddles. A few sodden brown leaves scudded along in its wake and were swept aside into the dull water below. The playthings of a careless breeze.

Restless hands dipped into coat-pockets, drawing out a camera-phone in a shiny black case and tapping in a passcode. A sigh, as multi-coloured eyes swept across the tiny screen and found nothing of importance, and the young man slumped back against the railing. He ran his hands through his hair, the soft dark-brown locks shining like oil against marble-pale skin, half-hidden by an oversized black hoodie. And the tall, lanky figure turned away from the railing to stare down the length of the bridge with a somewhat over-alert gaze.

He reached into his pocket again, drawing out a small box of matches and sliding it open. Shivering slightly from the cold, he withdrew a match and struck it against the bridge, the buckle on a cracked leather watch-strap leaving a shallow scratch in the blistered paintwork and exposing a sliver of the metal beneath. It flared into life and he dropped it, caught unawares by the sudden spark of heat, and watched it smoulder into embers on the damp ground before stubbing it out with the toe of his shoe. He watched it smoke for a second before swiping it into the murky river below with a decisive movement of his left foot, and hearing it land with a small splash in the dark, drumming restless fingertips once again against the barrier.

He lit another match, barely avoiding scalding himself as he watched it burn, and when it was half-used he dropped it to land with a hiss in the Thames.

A sound made him look up suddenly, the growl of an expensive engine. It sounded as if the car was purring. Yellow light glanced off black wheel-rims and mirrors as the shiny white Mercedes stopped at the end of the bridge, and the driver’s-side door opened slowly.

From the car emerged a woman, a shorter blonde maybe a few years his senior. She had a soft, oval-shaped face, with high cheekbones and cold grey eyes, and a somewhat business-like expression. They shared a similar appearance, and both moved with a quiet grace that was so alike in manner that, to a passer-by, they’d appear to be related.

She approached him, heels clacking on tarmac, coming to a stop to stand beside him. With a sigh, her shoulders slumped and she removed the elastic keeping her hair tied back, the lamp-light giving the silky tresses an amber hue.

“You stole those matches.” Her tone was curt.

The boy didn’t react, keeping his eyes on the water. He took a breath.

“I wanted to see how long it’d take you to notice. Three hours. You’re getting slow.” He told her matter-of-factly, eyes scanning the horizon for passing boats. His companion removed a pack of cigarettes from her bag, putting one between her lips and holding her hand out expectantly.

“A light?”

The brunet scowled.

“Please?” She corrected herself, lips quirking upwards in victory as he passed over a match. She lit the cigarette and took a drag, sighing before turning back to him.

“Rudy, you can’t just wander off at-“ She checked her watch. “-One in the morning. People worry.”

Rudy looked annoyed at the moniker, turning to face her at last, gaze assessing.  
“People always worry. They do little else.” A sardonic smirk appeared on his face, although his posture remained calculating. “And people will definitely not like it if I tell them about your nicotine addiction. Imagine the reaction if I let slip about your little smoke breaks in the wee hours of the morning, Addy.”

She turned on her heel, hair flying with the movement and nostrils flaring in frustration at his stubborn nature, and she huffed in exasperation. “My name is Addison, and you know it! We’re not children any more, you know. And it’s a habit, not an addiction.”

“I am aware, Addy.” He drawled.

Addison glanced around her somewhat sceptically. “Rudyard, did you really pick Southwark Bridge as your little hide-out?” She turned back to scan the water. “I thought we’d agreed that you’d stop these midnight wanderings. You know what happened last time, for Christ’s sake!”

Already Addison’s face was turning red from the cold, but if anything, Rudyard had become even paler. His face darkened. “I do remember.” He murmured, rubbing at his forearm distractedly. It was an action that was part nervous tic and part habit. He’d tried to stop doing it, a while ago, but life had gotten in the way. So, he’d given up and forgotten.

“Cigarette?” Addison asked, noticing his unease and offering Rudyard the packet of Windsor Blues. Half-joking. He took one, quickly lighting it, and they stood there watching the grey-blue smoke curl upwards.

“You know I’ll probably get in trouble, Addy.” Rudyard said lightly.

“I won’t tell if you don’t?” she replied, a soft smile gracing her face as she made to go back to the car.  
When he stayed put, she stopped and turned back.

“Are you planning on coming home at all tonight?” she asked, voice coloured with concern.

He hummed, not giving an answer as he raised the cigarette to his lips. Her eyes narrowed as he took a drag and sighed at the calming effect it had.

“You can come and stay at Rothscaster with me, if you don’t want to go back home. You know that Nadiya will be happy to see you.”

Rudyard shook his head derisively, dismissing the idea before she could gather hope. “Nothing against you or Nadi, but no thanks. I’ll go home eventually.”

“You’ll catch your death!” Addison exclaimed, a hot flash of stubborn and protective anger contorting her face and sparking in her eyes as she turned back towards him.

“Your point is?” he drawled, holding the blonde’s gaze defiantly. Her face hardened.

“Rudy, get in the car.”

He sighed and threw his cigarette down almost untouched, watching it flare and spark out.

“Look,” he conceded. “I won’t stay out for more than another half-hour - nowhere near as late as last time. I’ll be fine. Go back to your house and your girlfriend. You need sleep. I don’t.”

Addison was already climbing back into her car, having grudgingly recognised defeat, almost too tired to argue. “Fine. Just don’t burn London down, okay? We don’t need another great fire.”

Rudyard sighed at the sarcasm— how characteristic of her -- and turned back to the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME: we get a fascinating glimpse into Rudyard's private life...


	3. 2: Oxymoron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rudyard is up to no good...

He slunk in just before three, as the dawn chorus began its soft fanfare. Nobody was up yet; the streets were even more deserted than before; and the air was still swollen with fat swathes of fog.

Rudyard sighed, setting down the polystyrene cup of cheap coffee he’d bought on the way on a coaster at the corner of his desk.

Thank god for twenty-four-hour McDonald’s.

Shrugging off the oversized jacket, he hastily cleared a space amidst the clutter and swept the rubbish and crumpled papers into the bin with reckless abandon. He flipped open his laptop, running numb hands through his inky, blackish locks.

There was no internet connection.

He clicked on the icon in the corner of the screen yet again, letting out a hissing breath and slumping in frustration. He clicked again. It still didn’t connect, and he stood up straight and slammed the laptop closed, shoving the device away from him across the desk with a huff as though personally insulted. The laptop seemed to return his glare, lights blinking as it powered down.

The Wi-Fi had been temperamental for a while now. He paused, his head in his hands as he contemplated what to do next. The boredom was agonising, and he stood and turned to the wardrobe in the corner of the room. Rudyard flicked on the light, clean white radiance filling the room. He reached up, pulling down a cardboard box from the shadows and dusting it off. A smile curved his lips as he traced the looping lettering on the side with the tip of a finger, written with a somewhat pompous, elegant, flaring font, in purple ink. He could imagine the hand that had written it, with a vintage fountain pen, the writer seated at a fussy oak desk. The cardboard was furred with age and dust, because it was old. A birthday present, given on his fifteenth; two-and-a-half years ago, now. He hadn’t used it since he’d left school. Gently, he lifted off the lid, the corners of his eyes crinkling at the sight of polished glass and silver metal. A sigh; it would have to be carefully recalibrated and cleaned before it could be used. But at least it would keep him busy, for at least until the sun rose. Carefully, Rudyard lifted the box with his microscope and placed it on his desk. And then, he folded himself into the faded swivel chair pulled up to the worn, tarnished, acid-spotted surface, and got to work.

* * *

He was still hunched over the old microscope when the light found him. Dusty, tattered beams of sunlight slanted like knife-blades through the blinds, hazy yellow light pooling on the walls and floor.

Rudyard stood and tugged on the cord to shut the blinds, adjusting the angle-poise lamp which stood dutifully at his side. He picked up a fresh glass slide from the box in front of him, picking up a long, sharp bodkin from where it’d been stabbed into the desk. A match was lit, and with practiced movements he used the flame to sterilise the point.

Rudyard carefully pricked his finger, smearing a ruby droplet of blood onto the slide and watching with painstaking attention as it dried. He opened a draw; using a cotton swab to stop the pinprick from bleeding, and removed a tiny jar of ethanol. Three drops of the strong-smelling chemical splashed onto the small scarlet smear. He checked his watch, counting out the seconds. When it dried, the slide would’ve fixed, and could be stained and used. But the waiting took forever. He held it up to the light, examining it with morbid scientific curiosity.

There was something almost entrancing about the colour. It was the colour of lies, of danger and death and anger and fire. The colour of broken promises and hearts, the shade of every aspect of human misery. And yet it was the colour of love and hope and life. The colour of warmth and joy and loyalty and everything that defined the species. The bare essence of humanity, waiting to be examined. It was just water and salt and proteins, and yet it could describe millions of years of history.

A snide, acerbic voice pulled him from his musings. “Rudyard, you look _chillingly_ vampiric.”

He chuckled, not turning. “Addison, vampires are just the imaginings of poets and storytellers, of which I am neither.”

The blonde stepped further into the room. He’d noticed her as soon as she’d crept into the house; had heard the floorboards creak over the landing. She should know by now, that the third and ninth stairs also squeaked. But Addison never had time for such trivial things.

“You came home, then?” She asked, arching an eyebrow. Rudyard did nothing except gesture half-heartedly to the end of the bed, silently inviting her to sit. She stayed standing, maintaining a position of power. A classic move; something she’d done since they were children. It would be firmly ingrained into her subconscious now; everything she did was intended to be intimidating in some way.

She had always been a bit of a control freak.

But then again, in a way, so was he.

Addison sighed. “Rudyard, you dropped out of college. You won’t get a job. I could probably find you somewhere good- so why won’t you do anything with your life?”

At that he turned, defensive, back ramrod straight. “Why won’t you just let me be?”

His voice was sharp and bitter, each word a knife-blow.

Addison huffed. “Because, if you don’t do something soon, then you know that Father will force your hand. If you don’t go on to university or into politics, it’ll be the Army. Which I know you don’t want to do.”

It was true, that Sherrington Barnes had high hopes for his children.

Rudyard slumped, acknowledging the point, and Addison ploughed on with the same cold, clinical tone. “And I could get you a place in my department. Put in a good word.”

He burst out laughing at that. “Really! Addison, you’re the secretary for the Minister of Defence -- an over-glorified PA; a desk clerk with illusions of grandeur. I highly doubt that you’d be able to get me into the government; it would cause chaos! Not to mention, sully your perfect reputation.”

The tips of her ears reddened with anger, but her tone and expression remained the same. “I have a valuable role in the work of Government!”

“Yeah- giving the PM relationship advice!” He spluttered.

“Any influence, no matter how small, is an advantage, Rudyard. To a great mind, nothing is little.” She said calmly, with the air of one reciting a piece of philosophy.

He hummed softly. “You’ve been reading Sherlock Holmes again. I thought you had no time for such trivial pursuits as reading.”

“It broadens the mind.” Addison explained snobbishly.

Rudyard rolled his eyes. As he turned back to the microscope, the blonde sighed and left, heading downstairs and out the door to her car outside. With one last glance at the house, she set her Sat-Nav for Vauxhall Bridge and sped off, back into the labyrinth that was London.

 _Oh, if only Rudyard knew where she really worked,_ she thought.

 _If only he knew_.

* * *

The days and weeks passed much in this way. Rudyard could see the days before him; stretching ahead in seconds and minutes and hours; as it had since that first day when somebody had decided to live out their life in units of sixty.

Boredom overtook him; and he wondered when the cycle of frenzied mania and apathy would end. He would creep in early each morning, face and hands numb with cold. Some days he would go out with purpose, others would be spent just watching.

So he watched the people mill like ants around him as the mornings lightened and every trace of the harsh winter lifted from streets and minds. Snow melted into slush which gradually melted into nothing, and the sun shone on the city once again.

But he liked the night. It was more interesting when he could watch without being watched in return. He often took to lying in Hyde Park and just watching the sky change. Or he’d visit St James’, and watch the businessmen feed the ducks and the government operatives feed the pelicans.

He liked the pelicans.

The stars were barely visible, but he enjoyed them all the same. And the days rolled on.

The fog may have lifted from the streets, but it remained in his mind. He was bored. And he would come home each morning to do another experiment, or to surf the internet. But life was monotonous, and he wished for something new to happen. Even baiting Addison lost its appeal. And although he lived in London, he lived a life apart.

The universe kept turning, but nothing changed.

* * *

It was raining, the kind of light drizzle that has a person soaked to the skin in seconds. People fled the streets like they would flee a wildfire. And those who remained sought the protection of umbrellas and coats and bus-shelters, huddling under café awnings and trees to escape the downpour.

Rudyard sighed and backed away from the narrow window, letting the curtain fall shut behind him, and turning to the desk. He wished he’d stayed in college-- at least then he’d be able to borrow equipment from the lab. His supplies were running low, and he was out of ethanol. His parents wouldn’t be back for a few hours. He grabbed an old, warm, blue-grey wool greatcoat from the hook on the back of his door, turning up his collar against the wind and rainfall, and left the room, heading outside.

Cold water dripped down the back of his neck as he left the house, and he shuddered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME; we meet Katie Sherwood, and everything isn't as it seems....


	4. 4; Cosmogyral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Katie Sherwood. Things are Changing...

She ducked into an alleyway, breath coming in pants, heart pounding in her chest. Her feet were sore and blistered from ill-fitting shoes, her clothes messy and tattered. The rain had soaked through her old coat long ago; she’d have to get a new one as soon as she could. She checked her phone.

It was just after midnight, before one-0’clock. She’d have to wait a few hours before she could make another move.

There would be less of a risk that she’d be noticed if she waited until between three and four. No sane person would be out at that time.

She sighed, pulling an elastic band from her pocket and gathering her wild hair into a loose ponytail, huffing at the frizzy strands which kept falling in front of her eyes. Pulling a pair of black rectangular-framed glasses from her pocket, she put them on, before sighing and removing them, cleaning the smudged lenses with her sleeve.

She checked her phone once more, leaning against the wall of the alley as rain dripped down the back of her neck, and she turned up her raggedy collar in a futile attempt to stop it. There was nothing new in her texts or newsfeed, nothing to direct her or indicate what she should do next. She was aimless for now, just trying to get by on the shifting winds and tides.

That was her-- a traveller, wandering from one place to the next.

She slumped against the wall, exhaustion showing in every expression that flitted over her face. A raindrop landed in her eye, and she swiped it away with the back of her hand, eyelids heavy and threatening to close.

A red-blue blur flashed past, and she sucked in a hurried breath and retreated further into the shelter of the alley, finding a dry space between two bins. There was soggy cardboard laid down there; somebody had obviously claimed the spot as a bolt-hole. Probably one of the city’s many homeless. Because, that was London. A melting-pot of culture, a cross-section of all forms of life. Much like any big city.  
It both captivated and disgusted her, how two parts of the population could live side by side, almost completely ignorant of one another. Apart from the flocks of ordinary nobodies just trying to live their lives, these same streets walked by dignitaries and businessmen were also stalked by cutthroats and down-and-outs. A living juxtaposition in every sense of the word. 

Others existed, New York and Shanghai and Moscow; but to her, it was unique. None of the others were like London.

She saw herself in the city, she thought. How like her, so overdramatic. Maybe she’d write that down. She pulled a battered leather-bound journal from the inner-pocket of her coat, undoing the lace and buckle holding it closed, and flicked through crinkled yellow pages until she found a fresh one.

She pulled out a pencil she’d shoved between the pages as a placeholder, scribbling the note in cramped and spidery handwriting.

And she flicked through the pages, reconciling the past with the words she’d written, lost in memories. She was starting to forget many of her earlier entries, but the ink-stained pages helped. The old times were bought back into shining, glorious colour.

She groaned despairingly as water started leaking again through the soles of second-hand hiking boots. They’d not been bad for five quid; lasting nearly a month.

she returned her attention to the diary; she’d been flicking through it absent-mindedly, but a glance at the top of a page—written in water-blotched red ink—made her shut the book with an abrupt snap and hastily redo the bindings. Her eyes pricked with sudden tears, and her breath hitched as she tried to force down the lump in her throat. Her chest ached with every half-breath as if she was deep underwater.

She averted her eyes from the book, bundling it hurriedly back into her pocket. She was too scared to rip out those few pages; they were small in number and far between, but the sheets of red ink would make her fall to pieces if she dwelt on them too long. Avoidance was the best course of action.

Her hands were beginning to shake with cold, and she reached into another pocket to draw out a smartphone in a blue floral case. She tapped in a familiar number, startled by temperature of the freezing screen, fumbling slightly as she fought to remember the last three digits. She would have to add it to her contacts eventually, but it was changed so often that she would have to constantly keep updating it.

Taking a deep, calming breath, she tapped in the final number, a one, and pulled herself together as the phone quietly began to ring. It took only a few seconds to calm her ragged nerves, and she smiled as the phone was picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?” came a voice, with a soft accent. South-English, maybe Devon or Cornwall. It had been eroded over time, leaving only the barest hint of the speaker’s place of origin.

“Hey, Jack.” she said, standing up a little straighter at the sound of her friend’s voice.

“Katie?” Jack asked, hurriedly. “S’that you?”  
There was obvious hope in Jack’s voice, and Katie could imagine the speaker smiling, joy lighting up dark blue-green eyes.

“Yeah.” Katie confirmed, the corners of her lips quirking upwards slightly. “How are you? Anything interesting going on in your corner of the world?”

“Nah. Same old. You?”

“It’s a bit boring here. Got nothing to do. I’m going a bit stir-crazy here, to be honest. Awful weather.” Ah, yes, the weather. A good topic. A safe topic of conversation that was a good choice because it would lead to no awkward or embarrassing moments. (And, crucially, because they were British, after all, it was an unspoken rule that if you didn’t have a profoundly uninteresting chat about the weather at least once a week, the Queen came along and broke your kneecaps. Or something.)

Jack laughed. They weren’t really friends, but Jack was the closest thing to a pal that Katie had. They’d met in person only once or twice, and hardly ever spoke. But the familiar banter was comforting all the same, and for a while Katie could forget the grimy streets and the rain.

“I honestly thought you’d died, Katie. There were some mad rumours being passed ‘round that you’d gone and kicked the bucket.”

Katie chuckled despite the seriousness of the offhand statement.  
“You know me, Jack. If I’d died, you’d hear about it. Tell you what, though, it’s cold as hell here. I’m freezin’ to death! I really need a new jacket.”

A blast of loud music sounded in the background, and Jack sighed. “S’cuse me a sec, Katie.”

And then there was silence on the line as Jack left, probably to yell at the offending person.  
Katie hummed softly under her breath, stopping when she could hear Jack again.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Ezra decided it was a good idea to play Bohemian Rhapsody on full volume at four in the morning.” Jack grumbled, sounding defeated. Katie quirked a brow as her friend continued.

“Tell you what, Kate, if you can’t find a new coat by Saturday, I’ll pick you one up and find a way of sending it over. You’ll probably need new boots too, if I know ya.”

Katie’s eyebrow rose further. “You’re too nice, Jack. And how will you find my address? I don’t even have an address!”

“Magic.” Jack said, completely serious. A pause, in which Katie sniggered, cracking a smile, and then-  
“I have my ways”

Katie checked the time again, a dark look of disappointment stealing across her features.

“Jack, I’ll see you when I see you. Keep yourself safe. I’ve gotta go.” She admitted reluctantly, and Jack snorted.

“Katie. When have I ever kept myself safe? You’re asking me to go against my base genetic code!”

Katie shrugged, imagining Jack on the other end of the line, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Okay, you danger-magnet. Bye, Jack.”

Jack exhaled softly, with a huff. “Bye, Katie. Stay in trouble.”

“Will do, Jack!” Katie said, breaking into a grin, and pressing the red button to end the call before switching the phone off with a click and stowing it away in a pocket. “Will do.”

And she drew her ruined coat tighter around her frozen form and left the alley, just as three bell-tolls echoed in the night. The rain became heavier, thunder and lightning rippling across the starless sky as water pelted down in drops the size of marbles. But Katie was gone; had drawn up her hood and disappeared into the tangled streets; the only trace of her presence two damp boot-prints on cardboard.

London was alive, and so was she.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME; An unlikely encounter.


	5. 3; Sonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unlikely encounter between two decidedly odd people...

Rudyard walked into the rain, shivering as it became heavier. He’d gone out despite the weather -- a decision his logical mind was rapidly coming to regret.

He’d never admit that, of course.

His coat kept him reasonably warm; but there was no hood, and he had no umbrella. Turning up his collar had done nothing to stop the flood of water trickling down the back of his neck. He looked up, getting his bearings.

It was now three in the morning, and the terrible weather showed no sign of easing up. If he was more romantically-minded, he’d say it was pathetic fallacy. The thought nearly made him laugh.

He stood somewhere near St. Bartholomew’s hospital; could see the white building easily through the downpour. Most, if not all of the lights were off now. No sane person would be out at this time. He heard footsteps approach but didn’t look up, too busy thinking about the best route home. There was a high probability that whoever it was would simply pass him by. His hair was in his eyes, and he swept the sodden curls out of his vision.

And then- “Agh!”

A soft cry of pain from somewhere not ten feet away. His eyes snapped to the source of the sound; a small brunette had fallen, crumpled in on herself. She had obviously tripped; he could see by the rapid rise and fall of her chest that she had been running. Fast. Or at least moving at a rapid jog.

So this was the origin of the footsteps.

The young woman; and she was about his age; was cradling her left ankle, obviously in distress. She’d twisted it. A fact that wasn’t surprising given the state of her shoes. They were far too large, and falling apart.

And without a second thought, he was crouched by her side.

“Is there anything I can do to help? Are you okay?”

The question had left his mouth without his permission; and already he was offering a hand to help her up.

The girl had a round face; the sort of pretty face which was somewhere between dainty and boyish. She was pale, a scattering of freckles covering the bridge of her nose, reminding him of the china doll that his mother had once kept in the living room. She had wide doe-brown eyes. It was the kind of face which would be impossible to pick out from a crowd. In fact, her whole appearance just screamed _ordinary_. She had wild, chestnut-coloured hair poking out from under the hood of her coat, black plastic-framed glasses hanging by the arm out of a pocket. Her phone had flown from her grasp and landed a few feet in front of her, and he picked it up and pocketed it to stop it getting ruined by the atrocious weather.

“Yeah.” She hissed through gritted teeth, grimacing. “It’s not actually that bad.”

Her accent was interesting; British, somewhere between London and the north-east. She’d probably spent a long time in both areas; maybe she’d split her childhood between the two. Rudyard quirked an eyebrow.

“The look on your face suggests otherwise.”

“Yes,” Came the sarcastic reply. “That was just a clever lie to get you to leave me alone!”

“But you’re obviously hurt and cold.” He replied, gesturing to her shivering form. “Only lunatics would go out in this weather!”

She gave a tight, thin-lipped smile. “That word describes most of my life.” And then a scowl appeared on her face. “But how do I know you’re not some crazy kidnapper? Or a knife-wielding murderer? Like you said-- only mad people would be out in this, especially this early in the day!”

“And I think the same of you at the moment; you could just be faking it to get my trust, and then, _BLAM_!” He argued, miming firing a gun. “Oi, I am not faking it!”

She hissed indignantly. Rudyard let out a small grin. “Then you’ll have to trust me, won’t you?” He said, grinning.

She grumbled under her breath, and Rudyard shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not a kidnapper.” He said. “And neither am I a murderer. Although my sanity is debatable, considering I’m helping a complete stranger at three in the morning in the middle of a thunderstorm.”

The girl arched one elegant eyebrow, and he plastered what he hoped was a puppy-eyed expression over his face. She rolled her eyes. “Okay. I am absolutely freezing.”

Rudyard eyed the awkward position she was in, sprawled over on her side. He thought for a second, gaze calculating. “Right. you’re gonna have to roll over. If you can manage to get onto your knees, I can- er- support you when you get up onto your feet.”

“My thoughts exactly.” She huffed. “I hate this bloody rain!”

A half-chuckle left him involuntarily at the sight of her disgruntled face, and she almost smiled. She rolled to her knees, wincing at the pain in her ankle.

He helped her up carefully into a standing position, supporting half of her weight. She was leaning heavily, half-limping, half-hopping. She wobbled, and he barely caught her each time she pitched forward on unsteady feet, wincing. Rudyard looked around, eyes catching on the doors of St. Bart’s.

“We’re not too far from the hospital; we can get you some crutches and you’ll be on your way.”

“No!” she protested, a little too quickly. So quickly that it was almost suspicious. His eyes narrowed.

The girl’s face softened, hard defensive lines fading away into an almost kindly look. “It’s late.” She justified, quieter this time. “And have you seen the waiting times at hospitals this day and age? It’s bonkers! It’ll probably be fine in a few hours anyway, and if I go into the A-and-E at this time, they’ll probably force me to wait overnight. S’not worth it. I’ll just walk it off.”

“Walk it off?” He asked, incredulous. Rudyard’s eyes flicked from her injured ankle, which was beginning to go an ugly bruise-purple, to her face. It was drawn tight with pain, ghostly-pale, and her eyes were glistening with barely-repressed tears. But her voice was unwavering, carrying a soft authority which told that she wouldn’t be open to any argument.

He shrugged, flicking his head in a somewhat dismissive gesture to clear his sodden fringe from his eyes as they continued shuffling awkwardly down the street. “Fine. It’s your funeral.”

“I just don’t wanna get lost in the system, is all.” She murmured.

He rolled his eyes. “You’ll be in and out in no time. It looks like a really nasty sprain. I did that once; couldn’t walk unaided for a month.”

“Look, I appreciate the help. But I will be fine on my own!” The brunette snapped. “I just want to get off the street and out of this awful rain!”

Rudyard gave her a pointed look. “What were you even doing out?”

“I could ask the same of you.” She told him, expression stubborn, eyes narrowing. He sighed, looking at her carefully and taking a breath before answering.

“I like it when it’s quiet. You can sort of… be alone… but know that the city’s still out there.” He stood still for a second, mulling over his next words. “Alone, but not lonely.”

She laughed then, derisive, and vaguely cynical. “How dramatic. God, I hate it.” She said, scornful. “All the stillness! At least in a crowd you can get about unnoticed, because everyone’s so wrapped up in their own lives that they don’t stop to think of others.”

“Sonder.” He blurted. “It’s called Sonder. The inescapable realisation that every passer-by you meet has a life as complex and colourful as your own.”

“Okay, Mister Shakespeare.”

She snorted. And the mismatched pair carried on hobbling towards a main road. He paused, feeling the weight of her phone in his pocket. It had pinged quietly, a message-notification appearing on the screen. “We could call a cab.” She suggested, sounding tired.

“Why? Have you got money on you?” He asked, squinting at the state of her clothing. She shook her head despondently, eyes snapping open as she wobbled a bit and hissed in pain. She turned to give him a look, and he frowned.

“Me neither. Look, why not go to the Hospital? You’re kinda stuck, and you’ll get hypothermia if you stay out here.” He said, trying to turn her towards the doors.

“I’m not going in there.” She reiterated, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow. She pulled out of his grasp, half-hopping and supporting herself on the buildings and fixtures around her, trying not to hit the deck again. “See? ‘M fine!” And Rudyard watched as she struggled onwards, ready to step in if she fell again. But she didn’t, and he saw her turn the corner.

Worried after she’d gone out of sight, he dashed after her, remembering to return the phone. He pulled it from his pocket, wiping the few raindrops which still clung to the screen away. When he caught up, she was leaning heavily on a fence, resting all her weight on her uninjured ankle.

“I almost forgot-“ He said, pressing it into her hand. “You dropped it when you fell.”

She gave him a sideways glance as she replaced it in her pocket, inclining her head in a gesture of silent thanks. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Good question.” He mused. “But-- are you sure you’ll make it safely home on your own?”

“Not goin’ home.” She grouched. “And yes, I’ll be fine!”

And this time, when she left, he waved.

* * *

Life continued. Rudyard had brushed off the incident, briefly musing about whether the unnamed brunette had got safely out of the rain. He still couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he’d stopped to help her, especially when it had just led to him catching the sniffles, but she had crossed his mind only once or twice.

London was a big city, after all, and it wasn’t likely that he’d ever see her again. There was no use dwelling on her.

It’d been a week since he’d last gone to any of his usual haunts, instead choosing to explore the unfamiliar terrain of the Isle of Dogs and Canary Wharf. He’d had to catch the bus and the Tube a few times to get home before he was missed. Maybe he would invest in an Oyster card.

He was beginning to get fed up with aimless scientific research. And yet he found it difficult to find an incentive to do anything else. He’d got his wish, and Addison had finally stopped bothering him.

He snorted.

She’d probably written him off as a lost cause.

And then, one day, he was back on Southwark Bridge. He wasn’t stopping by the water this time, just hurrying from one destination to the next. If he remembered right, there was a café nearby that did excellent coffee.

If it’d got to the point where he’d memorised all the best coffee places in town, it was probably a sign that his caffeine addiction was getting a little out-of-hand.

He’d paused, a force of habit making him scan the river for boats. He remembered visiting the Thames flood-barrier once, and he’d been fascinated by the water for weeks afterwards. When he was little, he’d wanted to be a pirate. Like the characters in the fairy-tales he’d read.

And then, somebody had walked into him, and he looked up without really seeing, muttering an apology.

The stranger was nearly half-a-foot shorter than his height. A new knee-length red coat in a military-esque style similar to his own was drawn around their slim frame to stop the chill that rode on the midday breeze.

And the stranger stopped. It was a brunette with a completely unremarkable face, but one that he vaguely remembered. The kind of face which both blends into the crowd and sticks out like a sore thumb. Last time he’d seen her, she’d been hobbling towards St. Bart’s.

“It’s you!” He cried, smiling slightly as the realization hit him.

She turned. “Hullo again.”

She was clutching a drink, from the exact café that he was headed for, and she took a sip. He took a slight step in her direction, a look of concerned curiosity in his eyes and expression.

“Did you get that ankle sorted?”

She nodded. “Friend of mine picked me up. Leant me some crutches. I was fine by the next day.” And her lips curled up in a triumphant half-smirk. “Told you I could walk it off!”

_She was lying._

He frowned, his subconscious now picking up on the forced smile, the shifting feet, the way she held her drink so tightly. She was fiddling with the cardboard sleeve the cup sat in, posture so utterly relaxed that he could tell it was all false. But he made no comment.

If she wanted to keep secrets, she could. It wasn’t his place to interfere with her life.

“I never did thank you, did I? I’d have been stuck out in the rain all night if you hadn’t dropped by!”

That was definitely a fake smile. And his instincts screamed at him to point it out. But common sense prevailed, and he kept his mouth closed. Despite his best efforts, however, his eyebrows furrowed, and his lips drew themselves into a thin line.

“I forgot.” He said, licking his dry lips, and fighting not to blurt out these things that he found so obvious, offering a hand. “I -um- I never answered your question. I’m Rudyard, Rudyard Barnes.”

She burst into a grin, shifting her drink cup to her left hand, and shaking his right with a firm grip.

“That- is a ridiculous name! Suits you, though.” She paused, carefully considering what she would say next, nose scrunching.

“Becca Smith.”

It wasn’t her real name, that much was clear. She wore the name like borrowed clothes, as if she was still adjusting to it. But London was a place where you could wear a false title to your heart’s content, because anonymity was free.

“Well, thank you very much, Rudyard Barnes, and I’m glad I met you. Have a fantastic day, mate.”

Rudyard nodded, continuing walking as she clutched her drink a little tighter and trotted away, a confused frown on her face.

* * *

He’d nearly forgotten her in the days that passed. His curiosity assuaged, he had allowed his mind to wander to other topics. Occasionally he’d imagine where she was now; what she was doing.

He’d bought another flask of Ethanol, and a wave of frantic experiments had ensued. There were sixteen new burns on his desk. His parents wouldn’t be happy, but they’d learned to cope by now. If it got out-of-hand he could easily cover them up with paint.

It had hardly stopped raining all month. He was slowly adapting, thick winter coats replaced by waterproof anoraks. There was a coat-rack downstairs, and tucked neatly below a few hats was a jewel-green umbrella. Winter had almost passed, and London was rising from its hibernation. Steam rose from the Tube stations as their heating systems fought the drizzle, and the huge fairground that’d occupied most of Hyde park throughout December and January had finally packed up and left.

The city was coming back to life, fast and fierce and wild as an animal. He often theorised that the Capital was built on the back of a dragon. It was alive, after all. It wasn’t that much of a leap.

And as London awoke, so did he. He would slouch from beneath a mountain of blankets each morning, shake his hair and the sleep from his eyes, and he would dress and leave the house in a flurry of manic movement. He didn’t ever go anywhere important; content just to keep watching the people, and his city.

* * *

The music was loud; a crashing bass, thumping through the walls of the club. She could hear the drums and the guitars, played with razorblade precision, each note perfect and triumphant.

She could hear it from her hotel room, all the way down the road.

Katie Sherwood sighed, picking up her phone.

 _Ding_. A message from Jack.

**U ok?**

Fingers blurring across the screen, she replied, hitting the arrow icon, and hearing the swoosh that told her it’d been sent.

**_Yea. Bored though._ **

**_When’ll that coat arrive?_ **

**_I chucked out the lilac one. It was on its last legs._ **

**_I’m holed up in some dingy little Travelodge._ **

**_Waiting for it to stop raining._ **

**_:(_ **

_Ding_. Another text.

**Patience, grasshopper ;)**

**And good riddance to that old thing. It should arrive tomorrow.**

**You working on anything yet?**

 

Katie chuckled.

**_You can’t call me that, remember?_ **

**_We agreed that, last time, at the Globe!_ **

Swoosh.

**_No, I’ve not found anything._ **

**_I’m not even in London yet, Jack! I only left yesterday,_ **

**_bus ride was awful. And I’ve gone and hurt my ankle._ **

Swoosh.

**_You got anything on your radar that you want me to check out?_ **

Katie could picture the grumpy pout that’d surely be on Jack’s face.

_Ding._

**Not as yet…. Will keep you posted.**

**Get back to your city. You seem miserable.**

**Gotta go. Ezra’s bleeding.**

**You know how it is.**

_Ding._

**Stay Safe, Kate.**

_Ding._

**Or else. I mean it.**

**Talk soon.**

The brunette rolled her eyes, tapping out a swift reply.

**_Of course._ **

**_Give my love to Ez and the others._ **

**_You stay outta trouble._ **

_Ding._

**Will do. Don’t worry about me.**

**Ciao.**

**:)**

Katie replaced the phone on the small table to her side, rolling over and burying her head under the pillows.

The room was warm; the bed was surprisingly comfortable. But the soundproofing in the walls was awful.

Not only could she hear the club down the street, but she was pretty sure that her neighbours were up to some pretty dodgy stuff. And she was certain that the people in the room below were smoking.

She could smell the nicotine. It mingled with the cloying too-sweet smell of cheap perfume and the stench of cats that emanated from the soft furnishings.

It would do.

She wasn’t in London proper at the moment; Woking was closer, and she could see the thin silver ribbon of the M25 Orbital Motorway through the trees.

She’d known the people who’d planned it. Not particularly clever; in the fact that it was obsolete before it was even completed; but they were fairly decent folks, who were only trying to help. That and earn some money, of course.

The familiar weight on her shoulders got heavier, as the currents around her ticked into place. Pressure flared behind her eyes, like a migraine. She was used to it, and groaned in annoyance.

And Katie clicked of the lights and fell asleep, painfully aware that time was marching ever onwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME; Rudyard sees a ghost...


	6. Interval: Prosaic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into ordinary life...

Dogs, really, are only barely tame. 

There are some canines that, when you look at them, are only one or two meals away from being feral. Hell-beasts with sharp, cruel knife-teeth; wicked pointed snouts; shag-pile fur coats. These are the animals that bring to mind wolves’ jaws closing around defenceless throats; and in their merciless eyes gleams the wild glow of ancient campfires. 

Some dogs are like that. Some send a shiver of fear dancing down the spines of passers-by. Some hounds are nightmare-creatures of muscle and primal instinct, and their owners just look on and murmur things like oh, he’s okay, and he’s just a big ol’ softie. 

Many people thought that Ainsley was that kind of dog.   
He wasn’t. 

He was a large Alsatian, with a bushy black-brown-gold coat and a tail like a feather duster. His ears were almost always pricked up, and his fur was so dense that it made him look a lot larger than he actually was. On the blue collar around his neck hung a dented Police badge, silver metal tarnished and scraped until it was almost unrecognisable. 

Addison had taken him in when he’d failed the Met’s training program. It wasn’t that he was bad at his job- it was that he was just too nice.

Golden eyes blinked blearily. The dog rolled over, made a funny whining sound, and got tiredly to his feet. A shout from outside had woken him up.

Ainsley pricked up his ears, wagged his tail, and trotted off towards the garden. He’d spend a while chasing birds, and then he’d try to see how many tennis balls he could fit in his mouth. Maybe he’d bark at a squirrel. 

Life was good.


	7. Interval: Ephemera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at an old friend...

The young woman sighed, tucking mousy-blond hair behind her ears, and crouching to pack a box. Vivid crimson fabric pooled at her feet, and she shook it out and re-folded it, nestling it atop the three pairs of shoes she’d bought.

She sealed the package, re-checking her mental list as she did so. _One new coat, in a bright colour. One pair of purple Converse high-tops. One pair of stout boots. One pair of running shoes. All three size six-and-a-half. A warm hat, waterproof gloves, and a scarf. One brown-paper envelope stuffed with twenty-pound notes. A vintage copy of Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’_. _A pack of peanut M &Ms_.

And she flicked through the book at her side, soft yellow pages crackling under her gentle fingertips, eyes scanning for an address near Soho.


	8. Interval: By the pricking of my thumbs...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are strange forces at work in London tonight...

He walked in the shadows, tall and nimble, eyes hidden by dark glasses. His black hair shone, slicked back elegantly. He’d started wearing the top layers a little longer, and it suited him. 

If anyone had been around to see him, they’d have said that he belonged in the ‘twenties. In a smoky bar, drinking whiskey, or on the top floor of some high-rise office building. He was out of his time, anachronistic, a snapshot of a forgotten age. He was a pale and aristocratic man, with refined features of the type rarely seen amongst common society; all sharp planes and angles. The man stood out from his surroundings with his neatly-pressed shirt and silk tie and slacks, his dress-shoes, his slightly-twisted braces, and yet he moved with a dancer’s utter confidence, somewhere between a glide, a saunter, and a strange sort of swaying waltz. It was an unearthly-smooth, flourishing movement, that told tales, that spoke of belonging. A subtle, furtive smile of self-satisfaction twisted his lips.

In the shadows, a stray cat hissed and fled. 

The Architect strode onwards, sweeping down an alleyway and out of sight, sidestepping a puddle without breaking his stride. It was a chilly night, but he didn’t feel the cold. After a month, it had finally stopped raining.

He was glad. Thunder and lightning really weren’t his style.


	9. Interval; strange sights.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse at the future...

The old prophets never died out. Not at all.  
In fact, what happened was entirely the opposite. 

There are legions of them now; modern soothsayers with bruised eyes and slumping shoulders. The weight of the future hangs on them, they hold knowledge far beyond their years and they carry the fatigue of sleepless nights spent trying to decipher ancient languages. The tired eyes are just a cover for the raw willpower beneath. They’re tuned in to the universe. 

Reality is simply a web, the threads all tangled and pulling. These people; not much more than kids, with messy handwriting and notebooks full of scribbly prose; can see how each and every thread will dance. 

One such woman slept on, curling her arm around her fiancée’s waist, and falling into a deeper slumber.


	10. 5: Whelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lesson in hiding. Rudyard keeps seeing spectres. Life goes on.

Katie woke up near midday, terrified. Her heart was in her throat, her pulse hammering out a furious drum solo.

 

She blinked. Whatever had spooked her, she was almost certain it hadn’t been a dream. She knew for a fact that she wasn’t someone who dreamed. All she could remember was the feeling of falling; of a carpet being ripped from under her feet while her thoughts chased each other round and round like a carousel until they became a mess of incoherency. 

 

She shivered. The hotel room was cold, a strong draught seeping into the room through gaps in the poorly-fitted window-frame. Her feet touched thin carpet with a dull thud, and she wiggled her toes, trying not to wince at the pain in her ankle. She was wearing fuzzy pink socks, and pyjamas that she was slowly getting too tall for.

 

(the goose-pimples on her exposed ankles were testament to the fact. _Jeez, it was cold._ )

 

The fear that’d been creeping its way up her spine retreated swiftly, scared away by the cold air and the off-white light filtering through the moth-eaten roller-blinds. Katie blinked the dust from her eyes, glancing almost ashamedly at the time on her phone.

 

1:34.

 

Damn. She’d been planning on catching the 12:05 train back into Waterloo Station. She sighed, picking up the phone again. A hurried clicking; she signed into the hotel’s awful (and overpriced) Wi-Fi and looked up the next train.

 

She’d have to wait a few hours, unless she wanted to go to Exeter St. David’s or Salisbury.

 

Katie sighed and began clicking through the notes on her phone. She had a while to kill. She’d just have to see if there was anything interesting going on in the local area.

 

Somehow, she doubted it.

 

 

* * *

 

Addison woke up far too early. She disentangled herself from the sleeping form of her fiancée, pressing a chaste kiss to the other woman’s black hair, and shuffling downstairs.

 

Her kitchen at Rothscaster House was spacious and well-lit, full of top-of-the range appliances and gizmos. She checked the time on the microwave, putting the kettle on the boil.

 

It was 3 AM.

 

The blonde woman cursed, loudly and in seven different languages. Claws clicked on the hardwood floor at the sound, and her dog skittered into view, tail whisking back and forth expectantly. Every morning was like this. It was like clockwork.

 

“Hey, Ainsley.”

 

Ainsley tilted his head to one side. His left ear had somehow turned itself inside out. She smiled, and reached across to set it to rights.

 

The kettle whistled, and she grabbed a mug and a jar of instant coffee. Two teaspoons of coffee granules went into the cup, followed by a dash of milk and enough sugar to stun a horse. She poured the hot water carefully, doing her best not to scald herself.

 

Nadiya would be awake soon, and Addison set out a cup of Earl Grey with a slice of lemon.  She herself preferred Yorkshire Gold. They compromised.

 

It would be a long day today, she supposed. Over the past few weeks she’d been called into work at all hours of the day or night, and it was really beginning to grate on her nerves. Couldn’t she get some sleep without a new world crisis emerging?

 

It seemed like the universe was conspiring against her.  The toaster turned itself off, but the bagels were stuck. They were charred as well, and she groaned, slumping, and nearly thumping her head against the bottom of the kitchen cabinet.

 

Addison grabbed a fork from the silverware drawer and gingerly fished the burnt bagels from the toaster*, layering one with banana slices and peanut butter, and the other with Marmite.

 

She took her own breakfast, plating the Marmite bagel and putting it next to the cup of tea on the table. Why some people liked the abhorrent stuff, she had no idea. Every time she bought the subject up, Nadiya would simply roll her eyes.

 

Ainsley pattered back into the room, and she traipsed outside to clean up after him. She knew that Nadiya would be downstairs by the time she returned, sitting at the table and eating her breakfast.

 

And then they would curl up on the sofa, eyes glued to the Telemarketing channel on TV. They would argue about the state of modern soap operas, or food, or whose turn it was to do the shopping. They carefully avoided the topic of politics. And then they would leave to get ready for the day.

 

Before the sun rose, Nadiya would take Ainsley for a long walk before heading to the hospital for the midday shift, and Addison would speed off in her car. They didn’t say goodbye, didn’t verbalise their well-wishes for one another. It wasn’t needed.

 

Every morning was like this. Clockwork.

 

 

* * *

 

Rudyard sighed, putting his laptop away in a draw. The battery had finally given out, and he’d have to wait a few days for a new one to arrive in the post. He sighed, pulling on his blue-grey coat.

 

For the first day in forever, it had stopped raining. But there was a bitter wind, and the temperature was at a record low. People were calling it the Beast from the East. A cold-weather front which was supposed to last weeks.

 

He was going to go to Waterloo. If he could find the money in a pocket, he’d get a train ticket somewhere. Maybe he’d just sit and watch the people come and go. It was a Sunday, and nothing important ever happened on Sundays.

 

 

She rode the train into Waterloo, feeling thoroughly sick. Katie’s train had been delayed by nearly an hour due to high winds, and her fellow-travellers were absolutely awful. In this carriage alone there had been three screaming toddlers, eight obviously hung-over young women, and a man who had evidently ran out of deodorant.  She shuddered as a teenager, sitting opposite her and seemingly tripping high as a kite, wiped his nose on his dreadlocks.

 

That was just _downright nasty._

 

She fled the carriage with the air of a rat escaping a sinking ship, dodging her way through the crowd and wishing to anyone that might listen that the streets would be clearer; sure, she liked crowds, but this was far too much. Once upon a time, she’d enjoyed train rides; but the majority of the population had been steadily losing their morals, etiquette, and general respectability for the last few years.

 

* * *

 

She shivered beneath her jumper, wishing that she hadn’t thrown out her coat. The noise of the station was indescribable, a clamour like the inner-workings of some immense, ineffable machine.

 

She headed for an escalator, and collided with a shoulder.

 

The person attached to said shoulder gasped loudly and hit the ground with a _thud_ and a groan, the lid of his takeaway drink flying off as the hot liquid splashed everywhere.

 

“Dammit.” He grumbled, righting himself and wiping steaming coffee from his scalded hands, and she looked sheepish.

 

“Sorry.” She said, and he looked up at her, eyes widening in something she dreaded to think was recognition.

 

“Don’t I know you? I’m pretty sure we met a few weeks ago.” He muttered, fiddling with his sleeves. “You had a red coat. Becca, wasn’t it?”

 

She recognised that name as one of her aliases, and blinked in confusion.

 

“You okay?”

 

And that was it; she could place him. The kid who’d helped her out when she’d fallen over in that awful rainstorm a few nights ago ** _*_**.  

 

Katie turned and walked away, throwing a cautious glance over her shoulder.

 

“Mistaken identity, ‘m afraid.” She said, breathing in the giddy London air, and letting out a sigh of joyful relief at being back in the city she considered _hers_.

 

 “I’m Katie.”

 

* * *

 

 

From that day onwards, he saw her everywhere. A shadow at the edge of his vision, like a rather apathetic spectre come to half-heartedly haunt him. Rudyard felt as if he was being shadowed;

every time he went to look closer, she would vanish.

 

She hadn’t been lying this time they’d spoken. Katie. Her name was Katie.

 

Sometimes she’d be wearing the same jumper that she had at Waterloo. Other times she’d be wearing that brilliant scarlet coat, and it would flare out behind her when the wind picked up.

 

 _Here I am._ It seemed to call. _Come and get me._

 

It was a blatant, defiant colour, like blood on snow. He wondered briefly whether he was going insane. But even madmen would struggle to imagine a face they barely remembered.

 

Some days she would be limping heavily on the leg she’d injured when first they’d met, other days she’d be walking perfectly fine. And her eyes; those eyes! Some days they would be bright and clear, other days they’d be bloodshot as if she hadn’t slept properly in weeks*.

There would be shadowed bruises under her eyes on those days, but by the next sighting they would be vanished without trace.

It was an enigma, and it was dragging him in until he was almost drowning in questions. He saw her everywhere, and yet she never stopped or spoke to him. She didn’t even acknowledge that he existed, no matter how much he chased, how deep he dug in all the records and databases he could access. She didn’t stop, and he would follow her until he lost sight of her in the crush of people. It was an infuriating mystery, but he was fast becoming addicted to it.

 

He knew it was slightly weird, and very stalkerish. But, for the first time in a number of years, he wasn’t bored. He had something to do at last, and it was euphoric. And so he didn’t give up, but revelled in the conundrum.

 

And if he was going mad, it was a sweet, intoxicating sort of madness, and he was more than happy to fall off the edge.

 

After all, falling never hurt anyone. It’s the ground that’s a right bastard.

 

 

* * *

 

Katie looked at the coat that’d arrived in a box at her hotel-room door. It was flowy and red and lined with black polka-dotted material; a coat similar to the trench coats she often saw in the city. She slipped it on; twirled slightly awkwardly on her injured ankle; and grinned as it swished around her when she spun. Like a child trying on her mother’s skirt.

 

She had to admit, it was tasteful and had a certain flair, and it was completely her style. It was serviceable and waterproof, and would cope well with the weather. It would blend in well, but would also be distinctive enough that somebody could find her if they knew where to look. That was important.

 

She found it mildly worrying that Jack could gauge her size and style so accurately when they hadn’t seen each other face-to-face in years. But that worry was overridden by the sight of an envelope stuffed with twenty-pound notes; thirty-seven in total.

 

Seven-hundred-and-forty pounds. Jack really was too kind. That day, Katie dined on peanut M&Ms and takeaway barbecue pizza, grinning like a Cheshire cat and remembering to send a text of thanks and awe at her friend’s impeccable fashion choices. Compared to how she’d been living the past few weeks, she felt like a queen.

 

She’d spend the rest wisely after that night’s extravagance. Jack made a business in buying and selling valuable antiques and rare first-edition books, but it wasn’t often that there was money to spare. Katie couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty every time she received another envelope. 

 

Most of the time the guilt was drowned out by the feeling of warm food in her stomach, a new book to read, a good bed, and the sound of Jack’s voice on the phone. Of course she scraped by, but it was a hard life sometimes. The lowest she’d ever sunk was having to drink from a cast-iron horse-trough in the depths of winter; the icy water had burned her lips raw with cold, and she’d been ill for days afterwards. She hated the cold.

 

That had been a bad year altogether. One thing she was glad of was that the universe was steadily carrying her further and further away from that awful, terrible, torturous twelve months.

 

She wiped the barbecue sauce from her mouth and shrugged on the new coat, revelling in the feel of wearing it. It was a Sunday night, and if she remembered rightly, the next Monday was a bank holiday.

 

Plenty of people would be out in droves in the streets tonight. They wouldn’t miss an opportunity to get completely smashed. The tourists would go to see Westminster lit up at night. The fashionable young dandies and hipsters would go to clubs and bars in Soho. The scores of pickpockets, street performers, night-people, and food vendors would ply their trade, plumbing the depths of the population for a pocketful of hard-earned cash. It is well known that one of the best places to become a nobody was in a crowd of somebodies.

 

London was full of somebodies tonight, and she could definitely take advantage of that fact


	11. The Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all play the game...

Katie was a gambler. She played a game with impossible stakes, with a crooked dealer and rigged dice. And she played it blindfolded.

 

There was no chance of counting cards, because the cards themselves were dodgy. The dealer just sat there and smiled benignly as wagers appeared and vanished and changed hands. Katie played the Game, and she played it against herself.

 

She’d been playing the Game all her life. It was a Game that required capitalization, a Game that was so boundless and convoluted that there could never be a winner. The Game was more dangerous than any Russian roulette. There was no predicting how the next turn was going to land, no hidden aces tucked slyly in a sleeve. The odds were so steep that it would take a major feat of levitation to beat them. It would take a million eternities ***** simply to learn the rules.

 

 In all truth, sometimes a player played the Game, and sometimes the Game played the player. All you could hope was that the Game would be kind. Katie Sherwood played the game, and she played it well. She was oblivious of this little fact. And, unfortunately, Katie Sherwood had just been dealt a bad hand.

* * *

 

 

A vintage car, sleek and fast and black, crawled by in the darkness. It would be out of the city by dawn. If a casual observer payed enough attention to the way it cut through the chaos-crowded streets like a shark through a koi pond, they would notice that the driver was humming something vaguely recognisable as ‘ _London Calling’_.

 

 _London Calling_. _The end of the world indeed._

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

  *** An idea that is an oxymoron in itself. You _simply can't_ have more than one. All those eternities would get terribly messy.**


	12. 6; Phantasmagoria.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a glimpse at eternity...

She’s dying. She knows it. She’s going to die at Duck Island.

And, by god, she’s never felt so _alive_.

 She’s crashing and burning and flying and dying and shattering a million times over and again, and she feels _alive_. It’s just like her; what a hypocrite. She would laugh if her mouth wasn’t full of blood. Her finest hours always seem to be at the greatest points of reckless failure, the worst lapses in judgement, the furthest nosedives. This has happened a trillion times, but never _permanently,_ and the thought of nothingness after she’d been given eternity is laughable.

 

So this is how it happens. Not in some heroic last-stand or crazy-brave gesture of self-sacrifice. She’d always thought that she’d die saving kids from a burning building; or in some shootout in the streets. But no; she lays fallen now in the mud and bracken with almost every bone broken and glass embedded in places she didn’t know even existed; and an iron stake impaling her middle like some rare butterfly pinned to a board.

 

 The others had held her hands for as long as they could before they’d had to run again. Now they are gone to who-the-hell-knows-where, and she pleads hopefully,  desperately, against her own reasoning that they’re _notdeadnotdeadnotdead._

 

This had been one of her favourite places, once. It’s not fair that she should die and spoil the memories she has of it. Drowning in her own blood, waiting as her lungs slowly fill, fighting the urge to retch and hack and claw at her throat. She moves, emitting a small and broken gurgle as it tugs at the wounds slowly leeching away her existence. Of course she ends up here, in the mire and the stink and the ruins of a place she loves, of course it happens here. It’s obvious, really. What a way to go.

 

She wants to scream; drum her fists against the earth because _it’s not fair, it’s really not fair after everything she’s done for this stinking universe_. But she can’t move. She wants to weep, to sob and yowl and grieve for everything she's lost, but the tears won’t come. She wants to sing a final hallelujah, to laugh in uproarious delirium as her proud last words; her swan-song; echo into the night. She wants the world to stop spinning, and for it to never stop spinning. She wants to live. She wants it to be over already. She wants the sun to rise and the stars to fall from the sky. She wants to rise like a phoenix, she wants to go down in flames, smiling all the while. She wants-  


She winces, eyes closing as her life drip-drips into the hungry soil, murky water turning the colour of red wine, and she hums softly. It’s an old euphony, one barely on the furthest edge of recollection, slow and smooth notes interspersed with lively flourishes. And yet she can’t consign it to oblivion, can never forget. It’s not bad for a last hurrah.

 

It’s sad and triumphant, manic and calm all at once. She remembers the day she played it much better; smoke and alcohol in her blood, her family by her side, dancing until the sun rose like people possessed. She smiles with bloodstained teeth.

 

The pain is fading now; ebbing away. She can still feel the injuries; she knows they're there with a kind of cold and clinical detachment; but there’s little pain. There may be no rest for the wicked, but it is little-known that the virtuous too rarely slumber; and she is neither and both in extremis.

 

She’s not long for this world. At the end of her rope. Her thoughts are slow and disintegrating. Blue eyes. Brown eyes. Green eyes. Grey eyes. They swim in her vision, and the world goes blurry and incoherent as the tears finally show their faces. A duck quacks from the bushes. A gull overhead screams in reply.

 

It’s all too peaceful, too normal. Normal isn’t a good thing as far as she’s concerned. If anything acts normally around her, it’s usually a tell that something is very, very wrong; the worst kind of wrong.

 

It’s terrifying, but she curls her fingers and digs the nails into the soft flesh of her hands to distract herself and faces the unknown. Normally the action would cause her palms to become marked with a row of neat and bloody crescents, but now she’s left with mottled half-moon bruises. The lacerations aren’t even given time to bleed. And then it’s over.

 

Slowly, she takes her last breath in a stuttering, shuddering gasp, and everything ends. The timer clicks to zero, resets. She looks peaceful in her repose, and the sunrise is reflected in glassy eyes as the woman- so much more and yet only a teenager- gazes upwards into eternity. The world keeps turning, but something is broken, missing now.

 

A few hours later, a hapless tourist finds the body. Screams of terror disturb the ducks and the pelicans. Within ten minutes, the area is crawling with police. The girl is unidentifiable; has no fingerprints, matches no database anywhere on earth. The lead coroner cries when he examines the corpse; _she’s so young, too young._ But death doesn’t have a sense of mercy.

 

St James’s park isn’t peaceful for a very long time.

It takes even longer for the public to gather the courage to visit Duck Island again. Something about the place just seems _off_.

 

And for decades, centuries after, when the lake turns to dust and the park is razed to salt and ash and concrete, a haunting half-mumbled melody still clings to the memory of the water. It swoops and falls and rises endlessly, inescapably, sad and triumphant and _alive_ , and the city never truly forgets.

Not really.

 


	13. 7; Past tense, Present tense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A study in human spirit.

Katie slipped into her favourite café, drawing a handful of change from her pocket and catching the door before the bell above it could ring. The café had closed in 1999, its owners convinced that the ‘ _Millennium Bug’_ would kill them and everyone they loved. That fact didn’t bother her.

 

They did an excellent Chai Latte.

 

She nodded politely to the woman at the till, passing over the appropriate coins. A few seconds later her usual drink and blueberry muffin were placed at her elbow.

 

“Thanks, Miri.” She called to the waitress. Business was slow at that point.

 

Fifteen minutes later, when the muffin was reduced to mere crumbs and nothing remained of the latte but the dregs of milk foam in the bottom of the cup, she stood and cleaned off her glasses. The opening notes of Queen’s _Under Pressure *****_ blare from her pocket, and she whips out the phone and heads for the door.

 

The call goes to answerphone- she was too slow. So she ignores it. If the person really wants to talk to her, they’ll ring again. It’s risky having a smartphone in this day and age.

 

She heads down Shaftesbury Avenue and finds her way by instinct to Euston Road. The streets blur past her eyes; Ossulston Street, Phoenix Road, Chalton street, Drummond Crescent. And when she circles round to Eversholt Street, she vanishes.  

 

****

* * *

**_* The original, mind you. Not that awful remake._ **

* * *

 

Rudyard found himself in an alley, and for once he couldn’t get his bearings. It’s dark, a black, dazzling kind of darkness, and Soho’s nightlife was coming alive around him. When he tries to remember the last few hours, he draws a blank.

 

He felt the back of his head as he became aware of a throbbing pain behind his eyes. There’s a lump the size of a duck’s egg, and his fingers come away wet and red.

 

He sluggishly wonders if he should phone an ambulance. He’s slumped against the wall of what he thinks could be a bar, his coat torn and his phone and wallet missing.          

 

He remembered now. Two of them, one with a knife. They were big men; hardened street thugs; and he hadn’t really stood a chance. He remembers a sense of utter terror, recalls forcing his heartbeat to make itself steady. He recollects pleading with them to be rational- _there are better targets out there_ \- in a high and strained voice, palms outwards as if he was calming a feral animal, using an arm to try and block a blow and fight back with the little strength he can muster after being taken by surprise. Rudyard gets vague flashes of falling; being shoved against a wall hard enough to make him black out, jeering shouts of “ _Rich poncy-boy!”_ following him into blackness as hands rifle through his pockets.

He’s been mugged.

 

He hopes he at least managed to land a few punches before they got him down, but he doubts it. He’d been alone and preoccupied, and they’d taken advantage.

 

Rudyard groaned, his vision distorting as a wave of nausea overtook him. It wasn’t that he was in a lot of pain, but he was disorientated and alone with no money or phone. And while it wasn’t debilitating, the soreness in his head was probably a sign of concussion. He tried to get to his feet, stumbled, and slid sideways down the wall. He feels as if he’s lost twenty rounds against a boxing kangaroo.

 

_Yep.  Definitely concussion._

 A gaggle of giggling women walked past, and he winced at how loud their drunken singing was. It rang in his ears, and he shielded his eyes from the streetlight that shone on him as he slowly regained his senses.

 

 

* * *

 

Nineteen years later, people might notice a woman in a scarlet coat emerge from the crowd on Eversholt Street at around nine o’clock at night. She looks around, smiles, and replaces what might be a key in her pocket. But the chances of anyone recognising her are slimmer than the width of a new iPhone, so she relaxes and goes where the night takes her.

 

 

* * *

 

He feels something drip down his forehead; there, at his hairline, is a narrow, shallow cut that pours crimson down his face. He can taste copper; at some point he must’ve bitten the inside of his cheek. A quick examination reveals that he has, and he probed the ragged flesh with the tip of his tongue. It stings, and he’s hit with the crushing realization that he won’t be able to drink any hot drinks until it heals. He’s pretty much numb from head to foot, and definitely in shock.

 

Rudyard laughed. _No more coffee_. The left side of his face is tender and he can feel the beginnings of a bruise*, and he’s sixty-percent sure that his nose is broken.

 

There are light footsteps at the mouth of the alley, and when he hears them, he tensed slightly. A light shone against blackened brickwork, the glow of a torch from a smartphone. And behind it; a shadow, a silhouette, a wraith in the night. A half-familiar voice, one he’s heard thrice before, and _she’s_ there.

He wants to say something, to speak to her at last and ask _how_ and _who_ and _why_ , but his head is full of cotton wool and lead. He can barely think. He saw the red coat, the brown hair, the glasses, and he wondered if it’s real, or a figment of his imagination. He’s pretty sure he’s in shock.

 

“Oh, hell.” She murmured. “Oh, bloody hell.”

 

“Katie!” he coughed, slurring, suddenly woozy. Something about it is funny; he’s not sure what or why, but he laughs anyway *****. She crouches next to him, peering into his eyes and checking his pupils. No doubt they’re unequal. She’s muttering, and he doesn’t know what she’s saying. His heart beats out a clumsy foxtrot in his ears, and it drowns him like an abyss hanging over his head. Silence would be better than this-

 

Her anxiety is contagious. He’s spiralling away from the universe; his mind a bird, flapping it’s wings desperately against the cage of his skull; out of control, free but not knowing which way is up or down-

 

Everything suffocates, slows, freezes, and he’s pulled, floundering and choking, under the unforgiving waves. Her soft, panicked voice is a hound that chases him into the dark of what his disconcerted mind thinks might be the early hours.

 

* * *

***It was at that point that he realised that he was only ten-percent Rudyard Barnes and ninety-percent Incredible Walking Bruise.**

* * *

 

 

She hears the laughter. It’s not unusual to hear laughter on an evening like this, but this is raspy and weak. It’s followed by a hiss of wordless pain, and it is that that prompts her to run into the alley.

 

It’s _him_. The teenager from the train st _ation. He knows her name_.

It’s not intentional. She’d told him in a moment of half-distraction, wanting to just tell the truth for once. Some instinct, some sense, had told her that he was trustworthy. And if he knew her, then it meant that she would go back, speak to him. He remembered her; and in her books, that meant that he was somebody important.

 

He looked awful. His pupils were unevenly dilated, and there’s a bloody lump on the back of his head. His coat; a gorgeously-tailored article of clothing that she’d been insanely jealous of- is ripped and spattered with mud. He’s slumped in the gutter, and every time he tries to rise, he stumbles. His skin is a patchwork of blooming purple bruises and clotting blood. It looks like his nose is broken, and he has the early stages of a nasty black eye.

 

Her mind races through the possibilities. He’s been attacked, there are small cuts and scratches littering his skin. Concussion is almost a certainty.

 

“Oh hell. Oh, bloody hell.” She breathes, even as he winces and flinches back. If he’s been robbed, he’ll have no phone. If he has no phone, she won’t know who to call. And yet she can’t call an ambulance or drag him to hospital. They’re strangers, and it would just lead to awkward questions. He hadn’t even given her his name.

 

“Katie!” he half-groans. He’s laughing like a loon, laughing as if he’s drunk. And then his eyes close, and they don’t reopen.

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Nadiya finds them, she’s on a milk run. Of course she is. Addison wasn’t home yet, and they were out of milk. There’s a crowd on the streets tonight, so she doesn’t stray far from Rothscaster. The local Tesco Metro is not a long distance from the house, and it’s still open. She gets a six pint-er of semi-skimmed and a packet of chocolate digestives.

 

 And then she drops them. The carrier bag _thunk_ s to the pavement. There’s a dull crunch as the biscuits smash and the milk sloshes in its container.  

 

She just about recognises him; his dark hair has flopped over his face, and his clothes are tattered and muddy and bloodstained. He can see the faint, faint rise and fall of his chest. He’s been laid in the recovery position, and near him sits a woman his age in a red coat.

_Oh God. Rudyard._

Concern floods her. She rushes across the road, not caring about the cars that beep at her. Nadiya is panicking now, and the girl in the red coat is fluttering around him instantly, trying to wake him up. And then she looks up, wild-eyed, and Nadiya’s brow furrows.

 

“D’you know him?” It’s half-cried, a hurried question uttered so fast she’s nearly taken aback by it.

 

“He’s- He’ll be my brother-in-law next August.” Nadiya nods. She flicks her braided hair out of her face, kneeling down next to him and wishing she’d bought a first-aid kit.

 

“Is he okay with spirit of hartshorn?” The brunette is already rummaging in a pocket of her coat, drawing out a tiny, old, blue glass bottle. “He’s got a concussion and I need to snap him out of it.”

 

“Spirit of what?” A frown mars Nadiya’s face. 

 

“Er- Smelling salts?”

 

Nadiya thought for a few seconds. “He should be okay- he’s not allergic or anything. I mean, it’s a bit outdated and isn’t the best thing for a concussion, but-“

 

“It’ll get him mobile enough to get him home or in a hospital. I assume you know where he lives?”

 

Nadiya hums in agreement. “I can deal with it. His sister’s place isn’t ten minutes away- it’s in Mayfair- and I’m trained as a paramedic.”

 

She checks his neck and spine with gentle fingers, and is relieved to find no obvious breakages. His heartbeat is as unsteady and frantic as that of a frightened sparrow, but it’s a heartbeat. A heartbeat is good. It means that the heart is still pumping, drumming out the rhythm of life through the veins.

Gently, Nadiya tried shaking him awake, before noticing the painful-looking lump on the back of his head.

 “Ouch.” She murmured, examining the wound, brushing Rudyard’s hair out of the way and grimacing when her fingertips came away bloody. She knows that the girl who’d found him had probably already checked these things, but she can’t help but worry.

 

“Do you know how this happened?” Nadiya asks, cocking her head to one side. “um- what’s your name?”

 

“Katie.” Says the girl in the red coat. “And I found him in the alley. Looked like he’d been mugged.”  

 

Nadiya looks up from where she’s checking his airways again. “Oh, Rudy, you idiot. Addison’ll kill you, you know.” She murmurs, and Katie helps her to heave him so that he’s sat upright against a wall. She hands her the smelling-salts and steps back.

 

“You’re someone he knows. He’s had a shock, so it’ll be better for him if you’re the first face he sees when he wakes.”

 

Nadiya nods, and uncorks the bottle. It’s tiny and delicate in her hands, and the vessel is probably a genuine Victorian antique. Not many people carry smelling-salts these days, and by the pungent aroma, she guesses that it still has its original contents. She wrinkles her nose at the strong smell of ammonia and lavender oil.

With tentative movements, she crouches once more, and holds the bottle under his nose.

 

* * *

 

 

Rudyard jerks awake with a gasp, his vision filled with burnished bronze. Everything hurts, and his neck and back are sore.

 

His vision resolves itself. Nadiya’s familiar face appears in his vision, her eyes wide and worried.

 

He bats weakly at her hand, suddenly aware of the little blue bottle she is holding under his nose. She’s haloed in neon and buttery yellow streetlamp-light.

 

With an apologetic grimace, she corks the bottle and hands it to someone behind her.

 

“Nadi-” he rasps, his throat feeling like the bottom of a budgie-cage. He would kill for some water. Struggling, swaying, he tries to push himself upright, but his arms feel too weak, and he becomes aware of the stink of gore that clings to his clothes. His favourite coat is ruined, and he floods with shame.

 

_He should’ve just given them what they wanted. Shouldn’t have put up a fight._

 

He didn’t have to worry about his bank cards, because he didn’t have any in the first place. He had money to replace everything, and he would heal, but that wasn’t the point. He’d let it happen. It was his own fault.

 

“Easy, easy.” She chides. “You’ve been through the ringer, all right. I’m pretty sure you haven’t hurt anything major, but it’s best to be careful until we know for definite. I can call someone to get us back to Addy’s place.”

 

“That old house gives me the creeps!” He whined, eyes fluttering tiredly shut. Nadiya smiles a faint smile, but it fails when he opens his eyes again. “Owwwww.” He breathes, and he looks close to tears. “How far are we from-“

 

“Quarter of an hour at most.” Nadiya says, and Rudyard gives a weak smile.

 

“I can walk it. God, I could sleep for a week.” He mutters.

 

Carefully, Nadiya and Katie haul him upright, supporting his tall frame from either side. He wants to turn his head, to look at the flash of bright scarlet on his left, but the movement sends fresh waves of nausea and gut-wrenching pain sparking down his nerve-endings.  So he fixes his gaze on a spot directly in front of his toes, and concentrates on putting one aching foot in front of the other. Each tiny shift hurts like a knife-blow to the chest, and his breath hitches with each faltering step. Nadiya frowns; he grits his teeth in an effort to suppress the agony. The minutes stretch and blur.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it takes them forty-five minutes to get him safely through the door of Rothscaster House. Nadiya and Katie dragged him upstairs to what had been christened the Blue Guest Room, and laid him on a bed. And then Nadiya dressed his wounds, and Katie went to the kitchen to make them all some tea.

 

Nadiya tiptoed downstairs some time later, making sure that Ainsley was shut in the conservatory. The dog was asleep on a rug, but she didn’t want him waking and being startled by Katie’s presence.

 

“He’s sleeping. I gave him some paracetamol and ibuprofen for the swelling; I can’t get anything stronger until I can get into the hospital.” She muttered, shutting her eyes and rubbing at her temples.

 

“That’s good.” Katie said, somewhat uncomfortably. “That he’s sleeping, I mean. How bad were the injuries?”

 

“Mostly bruising.” Nadiya huffed, abandoning her tea and looking deeply troubled. “A few bad cuts that I had to bandage,  but plasters worked for most of them. They’re clean. I’ve put an ice-pack on the head wound. He’s got a broken nose; I set it into place and taped it up, so it should heal right- and a suspected fractured wrist.”

 

Katie sucked in a harsh breath. “Must’ve been quite a beating he got, then. The wrist might’ve been accidental, though. I reckon he landed awkwardly when he passed out.”

 

“Thank goodness it’s not worse.” Nadiya breathed wretchedly, burying her head in her shaking hands. “He could’ve been _murdered_. We’ll have to get the police involved, and I’ll have to call Addison. She’s gonna go mad.”

 

“You should probably get him in a hospital for that wrist.”

 

“I can probably do that when he wakes up. He’s been out of sorts for weeks.” Nadiya mused. She was sitting back now, face filled with conviction. “Thank you. Thank you so, so much. If you hadn’t spotted him, I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened. You didn’t have to stop- a lot of people wouldn’t’ve-  but you did. Thank you.”

 

Katie coughed and spluttered, choking on a mouthful of Earl Grey. Nadiya stared at her.

 

“Are you okay? If you don’t mind waiting here for about another hour, I can call someone to take you home.”

 

Katie shook her head. “No need. My hotel’s not far. You go check on him, and I’ll take my leave. Places to be and all that.”

 

“Oh- yes, okay. Sorry. Silly of me to ask.”

 

Katie stood, taking her coat from the back of an armchair and slipping it on.

 

 “Nah. Not really.”

 

She followed the older woman to the door, and stepped out into the night, moving into the streets swiftly and vanishing as though she was something incorporeal. As she left, Nadiya sighed.

 

“Well, that was awkward.”

* * *

 

_“_ _You have reached the personal phone of Addison J. Barnes. If you’re hearing this, I’m probably dealing with some international catastrophe or other vitally essential event. If it’s important, please feel free to call my work number or leave a message after the tone. If it’s not, kindly bugger off.”_

Nadiya scowled, nearly throwing the mobile across the room in her frustration. This was her sixth time hearing the recording, and she was beginning to think that Addison would be unreachable. She sat by Rudyard’s side in what they’d named the Blue Bedroom, the phone clutched loosely in one hand, Ainsley curled at her feet. The dog loved Rudyard, and every few seconds he would try and jump up on the bed.

 

“No.” she told him in a small voice, and he grumbled tiredly at her.

 

She would just have to leave a message and hope that Addison got it.

 

 _BEEEEEEEP…_ The tone is harsh and reminds her far too much of an electrocardiograph flat-lining. She took a deep breath, doing her best to keep her tone calm and even. Her fiancée was surprisingly intuitive; she guessed it was all part of the job.

 

“Hey, Addy. It’s Nadiya.” She exhaled heavily and half-coughed. “I don’t really know where to start. Well- um- it’s a bit of a long story, love, and I’m sorry to dump even more stuff on the huge pile of stress you’re no doubt getting from work, but something’s happened to Rudy.”

 

Another exhale as she mulled over her next words. This was a lot easier when it was a stranger, when she was calling to explain a mishap or emergency hospital admission. Not to say that it was ever easy, but then she could be faceless, just sound sympathetic and get it all over with. But she was wired and nervous and jittery. This was Addison and Rudyard, and they knew her, and that made it all the more difficult.

 

“Long story short, he’s been hurt pretty badly. He’s crashed out upstairs at the moment, and he’s stable, but I’m gonna take him into hospital tomorrow. If you’re not back, I’ll call a cab. I don’t think he’ll manage a bus. We’re probably going to have to get the police involved.”

 

She explained, backpedalling when she began to sound panicked.  

 

“I- it’s nearly eleven at night, Addy. I’m really sorry to worry you, and I know you won’t get this until you get out of the office, but- just, get home soon, okay? Drive safe. Love you.”

 

She pressed the hash key and squeezed Rudyard’s hand as he shifted in his sleep and made a snuffly sound of discomfort. It was going to be a long night.

 


	14. 8; Alethiology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories and plans.

He woke in the darkness, looking up at the shadowed surface of an elegantly-plastered ceiling. His eyes were fuzzy, his mouth dry, and his skin itched as if it was crawling with ants. He tried to move and found that he couldn’t.

 

A quick examination of the situation revealed that Nadiya and Addison had taken up posts sitting on either side of him. At some point they had fallen asleep, and lay across him like sleeping cats. Their dead weight effectively kept him pinned down.

 

Rudyard rolled over slightly and winced at pain in his neck, taking in the sights around him. He was in a room decorated with pale blue and silver wallpaper, and there was a rug on the floor, a deeper shade of navy, and patterned with constellations. He lay under a thick quilt patterned with grey stars, and somebody had put him into a pair of old pyjamas patterned with little yellow ducklings.

 

He fiddled with the fabric of his sleeve, worn vintage-soft by repeated washing. There was a door to his right, made of a heavy, dark wood. There could be no mistaking the twisting vines carved into the doorframe, barely distinguishable in the half-light, or the crest engraved into the panels of the antique door itself. 

 

He was in Rothscaster House.

 

The memories of last night came flooding back, so quickly that he nearly tumbled beneath the tide of blurred images. Not the mugging itself, but the aftermath. Being found by a ghost in a red coat. Nadiya’s tender hands bandaging wounds, brushing his matted hair back from his forehead as he settled into an uneasy sleep.

 

His face flamed with a pinkish blush of embarrassment. Carefully, he wriggled his way from under the two bodies trapping him, freezing when Addison mumbled slightly in her sleep. While Nadiya sits in tartan pyjamas and a floral dressing-gown, she hasn’t changed out of her work clothes.

 

 _Wow. She must’ve been really worried_. Addison was not a person who let herself wear messy and rumpled clothes.

 

Rudyard crept to the en-suite bathroom, turning on the shower and, after a few minutes to let the water warm, stepping under the gentle spray. He resolutely ignored the rusty specks that flaked from his skin and turned the water bright.

 

* * *

 

 

They left the hospital still half-supporting Rudyard between them, Nadiya on his left and Addison on his right. He bleated at them that he could walk fine now; that he was stable, but they still insisted on resting a hand each at his elbow.

 

They had frog-marched him into A&E, had cajoled and threatened and manipulated the staff until he had been seen. He knew he should feel bad about it, but when the painkillers kicked in, he’s too relieved to care.

 

The doctors had checked and re-dressed the worst of his wounds, had given him an ointment for the bruises which spread across his shoulder-blades like a pair of wings and littered his brow and jaw. He’d been x-rayed and given a splint for the broken wrist, a bright red, scratchy steel-lined-canvas contraption that made him feel as unwieldly as if he’d been wearing a boxing glove. And Nadiya carried a prescription for a bottle of antibiotics; despite their best efforts, a particularly deep cut on his left hand had become septic and begun weeping underneath layers of bandages, and he wouldn’t be able to write until it healed and the infection was cured.

 

Never in his life had he ever felt so utterly useless. They’d inquired about going to the police about the attack; but with him unable to recall the event, they’d have to see if anyone else reported anything.

 

It was bad enough that he’d let an incident happen. It was worse that the culprits got away scot-free.

 

And, regardless of his fears, Addison hadn’t exploded. She just smiled tightly when they were told that he’d be able to go home that night. And, despite his misgivings, he was coerced into staying another few nights at the old house his sister had inherited.

 

* * *

 

 

She wanted to run, to flee London. It was stupid and reckless and crazy, but she was quickly forming ties to this boy, this _Rudy_. She still doesn’t actually know his name.

 

And it’s been years since she’d actually spent a notable time in the city. Last time she’d ran, it was because she’d let half of Central London catch fire. That bought back some uncomfortable memories back. She’d be damned if she was forced out again; she knew the city like she knew her own mind, maybe even better than that.

 

* * *

 

 That night, Katie didn’t sleep.

 

_In a dusty backroom of her mind, amid tottering piles of antique novellas and a collection of lampshades she’d kept for some reason, a memory had been dredged to the surface. Avian masks, black set with red glass lenses, the sweet stink of rotting flesh and fire. She remembered the cries of the sick of London, those who’d hailed her as an angel, an unnamed saviour._

_Normally she kept well away from plague years, but sometimes, by accident, she stumbled upon one and became stuck. She remembered donning a coat of greased leather and a heavy pair of gloves more like gauntlets, feeling like ice and brimstone and being saluted as a guardian._

_Her touch burned._

_She remembers bodies sinking in murky water, the screams of mothers- broken women when their children passed, dying with their husbands. She remembers pain, and desperate eyes laden with misery, remembers the burnings and riots and the collapsing of society that had once occurred, years and years before. She knows death, knows the taste and the feel and the smell._

_She’d come down with it once in the fourteenth century, had holed up, hallucinating and shivering and in the throes of mind-rotting agony, in a church with some helpful monks; until she was safe and drained and immune. But she’d survived, and survived everything since._

_It would always remain as one of the worst things she’d seen. With most epidemics, she was there in the background; pulling the strings to try and end them as quickly as possible. But not The Pestilence, never The Black Death or The Great Plague. Her hands were tied with certain events._

_She’d failed in her job, had been forced to let it take its course as she had with all the other outbreaks before and after. Like the red pages in her journal, she had millions of memories like these, that no force of will, no drink or drugs or therapy, would ever dislodge or drive away. Knowing this, she hadn’t even tried to erase it all, just locked them up tight in some mental prison._

_That didn’t stop them from being there. Not by a long shot, not at all._

_And Katie can’t help but bring it up. The Great Fire had cleansed the city at a cost, but before that-_

 

 

Her chest begins to tighten, her breathing fast and eyes prickling, and she shut down that line of thought as quickly as she could, before she had time to lose herself completely. It retreats again, unhealthily fast, to the backroom of her brain, and she sighs and focuses on the problem at hand.

 

She wouldn’t be forced away from her place again, not by fire or fear or plague. Not by caring too much or little. Not by boys with dark hair and strange eyes ***** and nice coats who knew her more than she knew them. Nothing would drive her out, not hell or high water, not if she had any say in it. They could curdle her blood, make her teeth chatter, terrify her to the brink of insanity, turn her blood to ice and thoughts to poison, but she wouldn’t let herself fall from the hill she called her own. Maybe it was stubbornness, or a strange territorial possessiveness, but- no matter how far she strayed, how fast she ran - the city had been her home, her constant, for longer than anyone could imagine, and she wasn’t abandoning her stomping-grounds again.

 

She could leave it alone; let the loop close and watch as the problem undid itself, or she could exploit it, and make it all irreversible. It wasn’t really a question. She protected things, and she could either treat this as a spanner in the works, or a new weapon in her arsenal.

 

So Katie Sherwood sat, and planned.

 

And outside, a pristine old black car glided past. If she had looked out of the window, she might’ve recognised it. But it flashed by, too fast to really be noticeable, tires eating up the tarmac before it. And, behind the wheel, the driver grinned in a kind of silent, knowing salute.

 

* * *

**_*She'd noticed them when she'd bent to check his pupils: an odd mix of browns and blues and greys and greens, with a hint of yellow that seemed to shift in the light: a colouration that reminded her eerily of a lake reflecting the sky. She'd thought it enchanting in an unearthly way: a colour that, she remembered reading, was called Glasz._ **

* * *

 

 

Regent’s Park was quiet. It was nearly midday, and Rudyard found himself near a crossroads. There was a bench to his left, and he half-slouched towards it and flopped down with a slightly-muffled _oomph_ of discomfort. He had a package of sandwiches (chicken, stuffing, and bacon,) and a paper bag of donuts (vanilla custard) from a local café he liked, and the sun was shining. He felt more human than he had in days.

 

The injuries he’d suffered a more than a fortnight ago had all but healed. The bruises had faded to a  sickly, blotchy yellow, and the majority of the cuts had healed over. He’d taken the last dose of his antibiotics that morning, and had spent a few seconds examining the silvery scar at his hairline and the one bisecting his eyebrow in a mirror.

 

In another two weeks, he could abandon the wrist-splint, and his nose had healed enough that he no longer needed to use medical tape to keep it in the correct position.

 

He still took painkillers, but not ones as strong as the hospital had prescribed. It was a half-dose of paracetamol, just enough to take the edge off the prickling soreness and headaches that occasionally came to call. And although he still felt flashes of fear and terror whenever anyone brushed him in the streets, and when he would pass dark alleys and shady corners, and when he would wake in pitch-darkness, he was recovering. The dark had never been fully comforting, but he was glad that the nights were not so deep anymore, that the sky was lighter.

 

He ruled the city instead from the clouds, watched from behind glass, explored in the bright sunlight. It wasn’t fear, just sensibility. Rudyard stretched, basking in the sun like a cat, feeling the warmth on his face and revelling in it. He liked the effect it had, a heavier drug than moonlight, like a balm to his ragged nerves. He liked the feel of daylight on his skin, liked being able to feel it behind his eyelids when he shut his eyes. It was so far apart from the shine of the moon, and yet he loved the star almost as much as he did its counterpart.

 


	15. 9: Dreams and nightmares.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? 
> 
> Sometimes, it's hard to tell...

_It was dark in the house. She could hear a sound, as faint as the flutter of a butterfly’s wing, and it sounded like screaming. The furniture had been covered with white sheets, and the whole thing looked like the playground of a ghost. Dust hung thickly in the air, and every breath burned in her lungs._

_Without knowing why, her breath hitched. Fear hid, cowering, like a crouching rabbit inside her; eyes wide and rolling, ears pricked up. It was a creeping kind of fear, that slid like mercury from her palms, down her spine. It created its own aura of barely-controlled terror, a kind of feedback loop that crackled like static electricity. Her nerves were afire, her knuckles white stars. Dread pooled in her gut, dripped in a cold sweat from her skin, crept to the apex of her heart and shortened her breath._

_She shut her eyes, and that made it worse. She could hear voices now, creeping closer and closer and pervading the place with such a sense of utter wrongness that she had to fight the urge to be physically sick. She blinked, eyes widening as the scene reappeared around her. She was frozen, couldn’t move or breathe or flinch back, as if she was an outsider to this part of the universe._

_It was as if she was watching this tableau from behind glass._

_A  man stepped into her line of sight, alien to her and yet feeling so familiar that her breath almost hitched. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt, something that held vestiges of formality despite its casual appearance. The first thing she noticed was that he was pale; a waxy whiteness that was almost corpse-like. Some would call it beautiful, like a china doll, but to her it was if he was some demon that’d spent far too long in the dark. Maybe that was right. Maybe this thing, this person, had spent so long in the shadows that he’d bought part of it back with him, and left something of himself behind. His stride was loping and balletic, with elegant twirls and flourishes every so often, and it was as if he was dancing to a symphony only he could hear._

_That grace was deadly; despite the bumbling, foolish appearance, she could tell that this was an apex predator. The kind of wildcat or snake that hid in the bushes with only the eyes visible, waiting for something young and tender and foolish to cross its path. He smiled like a knife, teeth shiny like bullets, too white. She was almost expecting to see fangs, pointed canines designed for killing._

_Dark hair, neatly combed and dancing with a colourful sheen like the surface of an oil slick, was caught by a light breeze. He turned on his heel fast enough to give her whiplash, and she could finally see his face._

_His lips were bright in contrast, like a bloody slash, and his features were structured as if they belonged to royalty. It was an odd face, gentle with a straight nose and high cheekbones, all sharp corners and soft planes. It was the sort of face that Leonardo DaVinci would’ve been begging to get the chance to draw, that Michelangelo should’ve sculpted; with something of David in the way he held himself, despite the slight slouch. And yet something was off about it._

_It was the kind of face she’d seen in renaissance paintings, on stained-glass windows on the rare occasions she’d visited a church. It reminded her of the old stories, of the unearthly perfectness of something supernatural. Too full of power, too full of threat, to ever be seen as truly beautiful; borne from an ancient time when terrible and awesome meant the same thing. And his eyes- he probably kept them concealed, judging by the shades in his pocket, those eyes-_

In a freshly-decorated master bedroom in an old house in Mayfair, Nadiya Khan began to sob in her sleep. Her fiancée simply curled an arm around her shoulders in sympathy, too used to dealing with her partner’s nightmares to complain about being woken. Nadiya would only half-remember it when she woke, would brush the whole thing off.

Maybe, on this particular occasion, that was for the best.


	16. 10: Clandestine meetings of enemy agents.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two perfectly ordinary people meet in a park. There are doughnuts.

He relaxed on the bench with a sigh, crossing one sneaker-clad foot in front of the other and stretching, feeling his spine click back into place. He swatted at a pigeon pecking around his feet, looking upwards at the sound of footsteps. They were slow footsteps, gentle, scuffing slightly at the left with a residual limp. They were footsteps he would recognise anywhere, the determined stride of somebody who knew exactly who they were and where they were going.

 

Somebody settled on the bench beside him, with a faint thump. There was a rustle as she shifted, and he smiled faintly.

 

“Katie?”

 

She looked up sharply. “Yes?”

 

“You helped me get home the other week. Nadiya told me.”

 

“The Sister-in-law?”

 

“Yeah. I never got to thank you for that, by the way, considering I was completely out of it.”

 

She grinned at him. “Not your fault. I reckon we’re even now.” She told him, leaning back with a happy expression. Her eyes were shadowed again, and she looked utterly exhausted.

 

“Um-“ Rudyard began, and was interrupted as her stomach rumbled, loudly.

 

“Sorry ‘bout that.” She said, and he paused, tearing the side of the donut bag to create a sort of plate, and putting half of his sandwich and a pastry on it, nudging it across to her.

 

“You look half-starved. Here.” He muttered, wincing as she eyed it distrustfully before taking a bite out of his own portion. “Sandwich yummy. Not poisoned. Om nom nom.”

 

She couldn’t stifle a giggle, which descended into a sort of weirdly endearing half-snort, and he cracked his own smile as she picked up the sandwich and took a mouthful, half-groaning.

 

“This is probably the best sandwich I’ve ever had, like, ever.”

 

“Yeah.” He agreed, stretching and crumpling up the sandwich wrapper before tossing it in the bin. “Been meaning to talk to you, by the way. D’you wanna get a coffee?”

 

“I don’t have any money.” She sighed.

 

“I’ll buy. C’mon.” She stood, shakily, and he looked on with a frown. “I thought that ankle would’ve healed by now?”

 

“I’ve always limped a bit. Was born like it.” She said, with a scowl, glaring at her left leg as though it had personally offended her. He looked uncomfortably at the ground, seemingly embarrassed.

 

“I’d never noticed.”

 

“Hmmm. It’s fine. Most people don’t.”

 

He offered her his elbow, his eyes crinkling, and she took it and allowed him to lead her to a café with a bemused expression.

* * *

 

 

They ordered lattes, and the older woman behind the counter smiled at Katie, and pressed a slice of cake into her hand, murmuring, “Here, share that with your young man.”

 

“He’s not my ‘young man.’” Katie had blushed, taking the proffered chocolate cake and heading towards a table by a wide window. She sat down opposite him, watching as he paid the barista and collected their drinks, and the silly young girl cooed over him, asking about the bruising and the plasters on his face. Katie saw him stiffen and turn scarlet at that, and he hurried back to her. She took a knife and carefully split the cake in two, sharing it between two plates.

 

“So.” She said. “What’s been going on?”

 

He scowled, rubbing at the back of his neck as if in embarrassment, playing with the crumbs of the half-a-slice of cake in front of him.

 

“Well, uhm, it’s kind of simple. I’ve been seeing you. Everywhere I go. And, quite frankly, it’s getting ridiculous.”

 

Katie sighed and slumped in her seat. “And you’re sure its not something you’re imagining, or somebody else that you’ve mistaken for me?”

 

“You think I’m imagining it?”

There was no accusation in his voice. It was a genuine question, and he raked his fingers through windswept hair and rubbed at his eyes. Katie saw the tired look on his face, compared it with the glowing expression he’d worn in the sunshine, and placed her hand over his own, stopping it’s frantic tapping on the table.

 

“No, ‘course not. But it’s definitely not a coincidence, and that means we have to do something about it, Rudy.”

 

He raised an eyebrow, taking a disapproving slurp of his latte. “And why can’t it be a coincidence?”

 

Katie’s expression clouded, and she grumbled into the dregs of her drink. “Because coincidences don’t happen ‘round me. ‘S never that simple.”

 

That eyebrow rose further, nearly disappearing into his hair, and his mouth twisted into a scowl, curiosity burning in his eyes. “And why would that be, Katie?”

She dug in her coat-pocket for a moment, drawing out a key on a long chain. It was the sort of key that would fit a window-lock or a Yale lock, shining a dull silver. Rudyard gently took it from her palm, holding it up to the window. Tiny metal devices had been welded to it, copper wire catching the light, a small green LED blinking dully. It was a thing of beauty, and Katie was looking at him as if he expected him to know exactly what it was.

 

 He didn’t know what it was.                                                                                                          *

 

“Cool gizmo. What does it do?”

 

She grumbled under her breath, snatching it back with a troubled expression and looping the chain thrice around her wrist as if it was a bracelet.

“You wouldn’t believe me, Rudy.”

 

“My name is Rudyard.” He said, his tone blank. “Only my friends get to call me Rudy.”

 

“And aren’t we friends? I saved your life!”

 

A smirk curled the corners of his lips, and she realised she’d been played like a cheap kazoo. “That would depend on if you explain things. I barely know you. I’ve seen a lot of rubbish these last few months- you’d be surprised what I’d be willing to place confidence in.”

 

The brunette rolled her eyes, making a noncommittal sound like ‘Ngk.’. And she sighed, and sipped her drink.

“Fine.”

And he made the universal gesture for her to carry on.

“It distorts universal wavelengths. Twists reality around anything it touches, when it’s activated.”

 

“And that means?” He muttered, as the waitress came over to take their empty mugs.

 

“Reality is a barrier. A barrier between the awe-inspiring and the awful. Between the terrible and the terrific. Reality is a barrier between _timelines_. Well, not so much a barrier as an old, crumbling wall. Or a curtain. Or a cracked pane of glass. There are gaps. Fractures. Holes. Doorways. Whatever you want to call them, they’re there.”

She inhaled deeply, making a slightly-desperate gesture with her hands, and he nodded, beginning to get what she meant.

“ They’re not easy to spot unless you know exactly what to look for; and they’re in all kinds of awkward places. Supermarkets at night. Schools closed for the holidays. Airports at 1 AM. Anywhere where normality just…isn’t so normal. And it’s easy to just slip through them. You could stumble through a gap and not notice ‘till it’s too late. The key manipulates the gaps, allows me to control where they are and how I can interact with them. ‘M a time-traveller, Rudy.”

 

For what was probably the first time in his life, Rudyard Barnes fell speechless


	17. 11: The equivocator's phrasebook.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explanations are nescesary.

**Time. At once our worst enemy and our best friend; the most loyal turncoat there ever was. Time is one thing which is truly eternal, ever-changing, but somehow always staying the same too. Just doing what time does. Ticking away.**

**Tick-tock.**

  * * * *




“No.” Rudyard said, wiping chocolate icing from his mouth, his shoulders shaking with laughter.  “D’you honestly expect me to believe that? No way. No way are you a time-traveller. That’s just some rubbish excuse for you screwing with my head.” He was laughing, disbelieving, and there was incredulity and anger in his eyes. 

 

Katie froze.

“Rudyard-“ She began, her gaze burning into him with such force that she hoped his head would catch fire,* “I’m as worried about this as you are. It’s not right that you even remembered me. I’m being deadly serious. For whatever reason, we’re being pushed together, and we need to fix it before it spawns a temporal-linear Anomaly. But do not, for one second, dare think that I’d mess with anybody’s head.”

 

She stood. “I’ll get refills on the drinks, should I? Give you some time to think it over. I know it can be a bit of a shock.”

 

Rudyard nodded mutely, handing over a few notes. “Next time, you’re buying!”

 

“Oh, so there’ll be a next time?” She asked, quirking her eyebrows, and he was hit with the sudden and hilarious thought that those eyebrows were acrobatic.

 

“Well, yeah. It’s like you said. We’re friends, after all, aren’t we?”

 

 

* * *

_***Unfortunately, it didn't, despite her best efforts.** _

* * *

 

“So. Plan-of-action time.” Katie said, sitting back down with a caramel latte in one hand and a tea in the other, passing him his drink and the change.

 

“I’m still not sure I believe you about the whole time-travel thing-“ Rudyard said, pulling a face with narrowed eyes, and picking at his slice of cake. He hadn’t finished it, seemingly unable to stomach the rich, bittersweet dark chocolate. He eventually set the plate aside, as she tucked into a croissant*².

Katie rolled her eyes.

“I’ve gone over this before, Rudy. If this is a ruse or a con, surely it wouldn’t be so elaborate.”

 

“Okay,” said Rudyard, snatching half a croissant from her plate and responding to her unamused look with a gesture that clearly meant _‘Oi, I paid for it!’,_ taking a bite out of the flaky pastry. “Assuming I decide to go along with all this, what exactly is the problem, and how can we deal with it?”

 

* * *

_** *² How she could eat so much, he didn't know, and it awed him that she was still hungry. By now, his new wallet was considerably lighter. ** _

* * *

 

The remnants of a bright green smoothie splashed over white cotton, and the blonde growled.

 

“Ezra, this was a new shirt, you absolute _heathen_!”

 

* * *

 

 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

 

The police officer’s voice was stuffy, and it was obvious that the man was suffering with a cold. The woman paused, still only half-through a narrow window, her legs kicking furiously at the empty air above a row of bins. She had short, fiery red hair that was braided tightly and coiled on top of her head, and through the curtain of her fringe a pair of bright, darting eyes could be seen. The officer was uncannily reminded of the eyes of a magpie.

 

“Nothing. Just window-shopping.” She replied. “This is a very nice window. I think I’ll get one like this for my flat.”

 

The police officer sighed. “Miss, do you require any assistance getting down?”

 

There was a flash of teeth. “Nope. My sister is on the other side.”  And she vanished through the window before he could question it, giving him just enough time to notice something stitched in silver on the back of her jacket. And then she was gone, and the officer took off his hat and raked a hand through his hair.

 

“What the merry hell was that all about?“

 

He was far too tired for this.

 

* * *

 

 

The bell in the clock tower that most people knew as _Big Ben_ chimed eleven, which was curious, because it was only ten-o’clock.

 

The two visitors who stood near the corner of Trafalgar Square noticed this.

 

“I thought it was only ten?” Questioned the taller one, drawing a mucky mackinaw tighter around his shoulders.

 

“It’s a message,” Said the other, slowly, consideringly. “A warnin’- ‘E’s a fan of this ominous shite, in’t ‘e?.”

 

The tall man nodded as his companion continued. “The eleventh hour an’ all that.  Ten for the time, n’ one for the people who know ‘ow to listen.”

              

Ten minutes later, what looked like falling stars began to drop from above, hurtling, flaming, to the ground on the other side of the city and flaring, sparking out on the pavement with a _whoomph_ , like some macabre meteor shower *****. And the two observed, indifferent.

 

“Isn’t he a bit late?”

 

“When ‘as ‘e ever bin punctual?”

 

* * *

*** Yes, exactly like a meteor shower, just with screaming. Lots of screaming.**

* * *

 

 

 

Katie clasped her hands behind her head, stretching and feeling her shoulders click back into place with a satisfied groan. She wiggled slightly uncomfortably in her seat and sank back into the cushions, draining what was her third cup of tea.

 

Rudyard watched her with narrowed eyes.

 

“The problem, my dear Rudyard,” she said, “Is that we have unintentionally caused a paradox, and we’re gonna have to play it out.”

 

He pursed his lips, about to interrupt, but she held up a hand to stop him.

 

“You see,  you remember seeing me in all these places, but I haven’t been in most of them. You’ve experienced it – to you, it’s history, but it’s an event that’s still in _my_ future.”

 

He squeezed his eyes shut. “But couldn’t we leave it there, let it go, let the problem just… never happen? We never see each other again, the paradox dissolves because the meetings technically never happened in the first place, problem solved!”

 

Katie shook her head, looking pained. “We might’ve been able to do that.” She said. “If you had never spoken to me; never learned my name. But since I now know where I’m headed, we’re stuck. You’ve fixed this section of the timeline. It _has_ to happen. Or we get our Anomaly.”

 

Technically it wasn’t even a half-lie, but the words felt bitter against her tongue.

 

He fidgeted with the sugar caster in the centre of the table, gaze slightly downcast and contemplative. “So how do we fix it?”

 

“Well,” said Katie, fiddling with a strand of her hair that kept falling in her eyes, “First, I need a list of every meeting, every sighting. Where and when it was, what I wore and said and did. And we still need to figure out why we met in the first place. Can’t’ve been chance, that. Not us saving each other, just a few days apart.”

 

The boy’s eyebrows rose. “It was _months_!”

 

She smiled, clicking her fingers. “Not for me. But that’s beside the point. I know someone who can look into that aspect of it for me. But we should probably exchange numbers or somethin’, so you can get that list across to me and I can keep you updated.” She checked her watch, frowning.

 

“And I’m gonna have to go soon. I’m late.”

 

Rudyard turned and rolled his eyes. “You’re a time-traveller, and you’re gonna be _late_. _Honestly_.” He snatched a napkin from her side of the table,  drawing a pencil from his pocket and scribbling down his name and phone number. On Katie’s side of the table, she did the same, and they swapped numbers.

 

Rudyard looked at the cramped, messy handwriting, the slanting capital letters and spidery lowercase scrawls, and she copied the examination with the paper she now held.

“Nice to meet you, Katie Sherwood.”

 

“Likewise, Rudyard Barnes.”

 

And they shook hands, and parted.

 


	18. 12: Of sight and belief.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack lives in a glass house. She throws stones.

The first thing Katie did when she left the café in Regent’s Park was to plug Rudyard’s number into her phone, labelling it in her contacts as ‘That Suspicious Git With The Silly Name.’

 

The second thing she did was to call Jack. The phone picked up on the second ring, and Jack didn’t wait for her to speak before-

 

“Kate? What’s going on? Tell me it’s something good!”

 

“Why are you automatically assuming that something’s up? Jack?”

 

Jack laughed. “Sherwood, you’ve rang me twice in the space of- what has it been for you? A week? ‘Bout a fortnight? That never happens, mate. ‘Cos normally, I phone you too often and you go on at me for it. So what’s wrong?”

 

Katie frowned. “Jack, you’re incorrigible. If I wanted to get badgered, I’d have phoned my mum. Stop clucking like a mother hen.”

 

Jack pouted so much that it was practically audible, and Katie continued. “Jack, I can tell you’re pouting. Stoppit. Anyway, do I need an excuse to ring my best friend?”

 

A groan. And then; “Okay. What do you want, Kate?”

 

“Your help. I’ve got a problem. A five-foot-eleven, brown-haired problem with a ridiculous name.” Katie sighed. “And, no, before you ask, he isn’t a boyfriend, or a stalker.”

 

“Oooh, so it’s a ‘He’!” Jack crowed. “Tell me. Tell me everything!”

 

Katie buried her face in her hands. “Jack - alright.” She said, and explained everything.

* * *

 

 

When Katie finished speaking, Jack was silent, suddenly sombre. And then-

 

“Right. Okay. Kate, I’ll check with my sources, I’ve got a job to do with the Horsewomen, and I’ll be over to help you with all this. The normal place, twelve o’clock.”

 

Katie inhaled sharply. “Jack- you really don’t need to- and anyway, you don’t know when I am!“ she protested.

 

“I keep a calendar. I know exactly when you are. And I’ve made up my mind. You need help.”

 

“Jack-!”

 

“Katie. Katie, Katie, Katie. Nothing you can say will stop me. So zip it. I’m coming over, and that’s final.”

 

Katie exhaled heavily, glowered at the phone, and rammed it back into her pocket.

“Well, that worked.”

 

* * *

 

 

In the days that followed, Katie received a text confirming that _yes, she’d given the correct phone number_ , and arranging a meet-up with Rudyard in a local café at eleven o’clock the following Saturday.

 

Coincidentally, that was the date that Jack would arrive. But Katie knew fully well that coincidences didn’t happen around her. That morning, already worrying herself silly, she’d stubbed her toe and ended up having a blind swearing fit that lasted at least three minutes. The furious expletives could be heard at least a block away, and several old ladies within hearing range had paled at the angry, but extensive, vocabulary she possessed.

 

Her nerves were, understandably, frazzled by the time eleven-o’clock rolled around. She was running late, had tripped over her own feet thrice, and had got lost more times than she could count.

She found Rudyard leaning against the wall of the teashop they’d picked at exactly eleven-thirty, and he was frowning. He eyed her carefully, and then passed over a piece of paper with the list of places and times on it and a takeaway latte. Katie inhaled the steam, sighing at the strong smell of good coffee, and gave him a grateful look.

 

“Bad day?”

 

“Hmmhmmm.” She said, cradling the cardboard cup she held and watching as he pulled a slightly squished packet of eclairs from his rucksack and passed them over to her.

 

“Hungry?” he asked, raising a brow as she ripped the paper bag open.

 

“Starving. Didn’t have time for breakfast. Was kinda in a hurry." She muttered, tearing into the pastry. “These are good. “

 

“I know the café owner. He’s alright. I helped him out with a problem a few years back. Spider infestation. We put peppermint oil everywhere, and… boom! No more spiders!”

 

Katie shuddered. “Ugh. I don’t like spiders.” She elbowed him gently. “Let’s go for a walk. A friend of mine is coming over at twelve, and I reckon you two should meet up. Jack is a genius when it comes to problems like this.”

 

Rudyard offered her his elbow, and she took it, steering them away from the café.

“Lead the way, Katie.”

 

 

* * *

 

Eventually, they found their way to St. James’s Park, and Katie stopped near a drinking fountain.

Lazing in a deck-chair near the fountain was a tall, tanned girl who looked a year or two older than Katie. She slouched with her legs crossed at the ankles, wearing a pair of ratty black Converse sneakers, black jeans, and a burgundy blouse the colour of expensive wine. Blonde hair caught the sun, snaking past her shoulders and stopping midway down her back. There was a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose, and she looked perfectly at ease. There was a backpack at her feet; to any passer-by she would appear to be a normal college student enjoying her weekend.

 

Draped over the back of the chair was a sturdy-looking jacket. Bronze-coloured embroidery caught the light; and Rudyard realised that stitched across the back was a pair of wings, each feather picked out in metallic thread.

 

The blonde propped her sunglasses on top of her head, revealing slightly-smudged eyeliner, applied a little too thickly.

 

It was then that Katie spotted her.

 

“Jack!” the brunette cried, rushing over. “My goodness, you look well!”

 

“Hey, Kate.” Said Jack, standing and hugging Katie briefly.  “Long time no see.”

 

Katie took a suspicious sniff. “Jack, you stink of cordite. Did you come straight from a job? And, anyway, I thought you’d retired from the Horsewomen!”

 

Jack tossed her head, shrugging. “Technically I was never official in the first place- not being one of the original four, of course… but Eve still drafts me in when she needs an extra hand. It was a big one this time, so apparently Stickypaws was needed.”

 

“How much?”

 

“Twenty-thousand if we’re lucky.”

 

Katie whistled lowly. “All that from a pre-forties run?”

 

“Um-“ Rudyard coughed, shuffling from foot to foot. “Hi. Not a time-traveller here. I’m kinda lost. Can someone explain what the heck is going on?”

 

Katie looked at Jack, and they seemed to have a silent conversation before the blonde nodded. “Right.” Began Katie. “Rudyard Barnes, meet Jack Hallowell.” She turned to Jack. “Jack, this is the kid I told you about.”

 

“Hey!” cried Rudyard, but Jack cut across him.

 

“Don’t worry, Rudyard. To Kate and I, almost everybody’s a kid. She’s just more stuck in her ways. I assume you know about time-travel?”

 

Rudyard nodded somewhat sceptically. The discussion was rapidly veering off on a wild tangent now, and he was forced to just _go with it._

 

“We’ve been doing this since before you were a twinkle in your grandfather’s grandfather’s eye, Rudyard.” She continued. “Katie here? She protects people, has done for a dozen lifetimes now. And I _used to be_ a grifter.”

 

Katie flamed red at this announcement, and took over the conversation. “Technically, Jack used to run with a gang called the Four Horsewomen; They would pop into a particular year, steal what they could, and then pop forward and sell it when it was valuable. The paradoxes were self-collapsing because they’d purposefully go after artefacts that were then historically reported lost or missing *****.”

 

“I stepped back from it.” Said Jack. “I run an antiques shop now, near Reading. Specialise in rare books. But the others still drag me in when there’s a particularly big heist, and I get a cut of the profit.”

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask for ages,” Katie mused, “Why the name? Why Four Horsewomen?”

 

“Well, “ said Jack, “Because of the names. You have the Williams sisters, Eve and Naomi, and you‘ve got the Growden twins, Rebecca and Hannah. And all four of them grew up in super-duper-ultra religious households- so-”

 

“Biblical names?” asked Rudyard, suddenly getting it. “So you named the gang after the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?“

 

“Yup.” Said Jack, snapping her fingers. “Exactly. And then I joined later. Screwed it right up. Eve and Naomi say they represent War and Darkness respectively, the Growdens are Famine and Pestilence.”

 

She paused. “And I was Stickypaws, because I couldn’t keep my mitts off of anything shiny.”

 

“Wait.” Said Rudyard. “I’m not an expert on this, but wasn’t death a Horseman in the original stories?”

 

“Naomi doesn’t do death.” Jack told him. Rudyard nodded as if he understood it, but he carried with him an aura of vague bafflement.

 

“Ah. Okay.” He said. “Okay then.”

And that was the end of that conversation.

* * *

**_*Thus becoming a catalyst for the future._ **

* * *

 


	19. 13: No secrets, no lies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katie reunites with the love of her life...

Katie walked arm-in-arm with Jack, and Rudyard trailed behind with an expression like a lost puppy. He caught snatches of their conversation as they caught up with one another, but he paid them no mind. But then, he heard Katie ask “Did you bring it?”

 

And at Jack’s answering nod, Katie squealed so loudly with joy that he flinched. She stopped in her tracks, and turned to Jack with a wide, true grin on her face.

 

“Where is it? Jack, where is it?” She cried, bouncing excitedly on her toes and skipping forward in her excitement.

 

“I found somewhere on Romney Street, Kate.”

 

Katie stepped back as if slapped, with a scathing look, like a tiger on the prowl. “Jack Hallowell, if there is one _tiny_ scratch in the paintwork, one dint in the bodywork, one bloody mud-splatter, even- on my car, I’ll set your sorry arse on fire! You parked it in the bloody street?!”

 

“Katie, It’s fine!” Jack muttered, hands up as if calming a startled animal, “Looks as good as the day I gave it to you. Better, even! A few of Ezra’s friends were helping me maintain it. It was next to my cars in the garage, so nobody else came near it. It’s only been parked for an hour, max. And it’s in a private bay I borrowed for the day, and it’s covered. So the car is fine, love.”

 

“What are we waiting for, then?” Katie spun on her heel, striding off towards Romney Street with a determined spring in her step. She was humming under her breath; the sun had hidden its face behind a cloud, but Katie was walking in her own happy little bubble.

 

Jack fell behind, and Rudyard turned to her. “Katie can drive?”

 

“Hmm.” Jack said. “She’s older than she looks.”

 

“Ngk.” Agreed Katie, nodding, turning around a corner, and the others jogged to catch up.

 

 

* * *

 

They had come to a stop beside a car covered in a dust-sheet, the unmistakeable shape of something low and sleek and _fast_. Katie patted the side of the vehicle with a kind of nostalgic reverence, as if seeing an old friend for the first time in years.

 

And she laughed in surprised joy, and tore off the sheet with what could only be described as glee.

 

It was a gorgeous car; a masterpiece, really. Rudyard was sure it belonged in a museum somewhere. He eyed the mirror-like shine on the paint, the colour a dark, deep black like the wings of a crow. Chrome fittings gleamed, sparking bright in the dull midday gloom, and he fought the urge to trace its shape with the tip of a finger.

 

Rudyard wasn’t a car person. He was worried that this would soon change with continued exposure to this beast of a machine, this incredible example of an automobile.

 

And it was clear that the old car was loved.  His eyes landed on the tiny raised letters on the bonnet, silver polished so it reflected the light like glass. In fact, the vehicle was so clean and gleaming that it seemed to emit light rather than just reflecting. It was nearly awe-inspiring, more mechanics than electronics, something solid that had survived decades and would survive decades more.

 

It was a car that suited the city, so blatantly quick and agile that it would have no trouble in traffic, and yet it had _history_.

 

“What is it? What type, what year?” he found himself breathing, in a state of mild amazement.

 

“A Ford Capri.” Jack told him, shoving her sunglasses into a pocket and bending over to examine the spotless paintwork “I bought it new off the factory line for her in sixty-nine. It’s mark-one. Three-litre racing-grade engine.”

 

Katie was now cooing over the car like it was her baby, ***** and Rudyard found himself slightly worried for her mental state.

 

* * *

_*** in fact, she regarded it as such. she would gladly take a bullet for the car, and nearly had in 1987, but the shooter had missed and hit a fire-hydrant instead.** _

* * *

 

“Oi, Sherwood!”

 Katie looked up as something shiny went arcing through the air. There was a jingle, and she extended a hand as Jack tossed the car keys in her direction and they arced through the air. Katie caught them perfectly in her palm, and twirled the keyring in her fingers with a practiced, somewhat flamboyant movement. Her grin was victorious, wicked and sharp and intriguing, and her eyes glittered with something almost like the urge to run. Within seconds the car was unlocked, the driver settling into her seat like it was a throne made just for her.

 

Katie cracked her knuckles, stretched, and deftly started the engine.

 

It growled and snarled smoothly into life, the car shuddering awake like some great wildcat rising from a deep slumber. The sound built into a steady roar before calming to a kind of vaguely menacing purring, and Katie glowed, hooting with a kind of wild thrill.

 

“My baby’s still got it! Awww _right_! and then-

 

“Who wants to go for a spin?”

 

Jack leapt forwards and Rudyard jumped back. “Dibs on the front seat!” she called, pulling said seat forward so that Rudyard could climb in and sit on the back bench with a vague _After you!_ before leaping into her own seat when he refused.

 

As far as he could tell from the outside and from his (somewhat limited) knowledge of cars, the thing was in virtually mint condition. Everything looked original; there was no scuffed leather or chipped paint to be seen.

In fact, the only concession the owner had made to modern technology was to fit a tape deck, and then later replace the elderly Blaupunkt with a digital CD-cassette player ***** when it finally gave up the good fight and bit the dust.

* * *

*** A device that seemed to be rather temperamental.  Over years of exposure to the Other Side of Reality, the car seemed to have developed it's own mild field of sentience. It was picky about what music she played: it was blatantly obvious that the Ford had strong opinions, and Blatantly disapproved of a lot of albums. Many that Katie bought would skip, distort beyond audible recognition, or simply not play; with especially hated compilations being ejected from the player with such force that they flew through the air to bounce off the back window and land with a clunk in the footwell before eventually vanishing altogether.**

**Katie knew enough not to ask where they went.**

**however, a few tracks made the car buzz with an aura of smug contentment, and it seemed that the classic car's eclectic tastes were rubbing off on it's owner.**

* * *

 

 

But still, Rudyard shook his head as Katie rolled down her window.

 

“Not coming?” 

 

“Nah, thanks.” He said. “Maybe next time?”

 

Katie winked, and Jack waggled her eyebrows somewhat suggestively when the brunette yelled, “I’ll call you!” before winding up the windows.

 

Katie rammed a tape into the deck. They roared out of the quiet street and onto Horseferry Road, the two of them singing along as AC/DC came blasting from the speakers with a triumphant guitar riff. And Katie whooped, and gunned the engine, and they sped off towards Belgravia, weaving swiftly through the light traffic.


	20. 14: A ghost in a fancy man's shoes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The strings begin to snap.

 

When The Architect woke, he did so with a faint rustling, like the shifting of paper and dust. Light streamed in through his window, bleak and bright and harsh against his eyes. He recoiled, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and risking a brief peek across the room.

 

He winced and hissed out a sharp breath as the cruel whiteness invaded his vision again, holding out his hand expectantly. His tinted glasses- costly, round wire-framed ones he’d spent hours scouring antique shops to find -  flew obediently into his grasp, and he perched them on his nose with a trained movement so smooth it seemed second nature. They were too dark to let anyone see his eyes, hiding something that somebody might assume was a visual impairment; the same way that ordinary little people assumed the laws of physics were actual _laws_ and not just gentle recommendations.

 

Behind the smoky, round lenses, the world seemed clearer and he could enjoy the gentle warmth of sunlight on sun-starved skin. He hadn’t meant to sleep just yet, but the Room had catered to his will perfectly. Well, almost perfectly; the lack of curtains was a bit of a let-down. He cracked a creaky smile at that, sleep-hazed and fatigued, and checked the tiny gold pocket-watch on the bedside table. Eleven-forty at night.

 

He waved a hand; the creases in his shirt smoothed themselves out, the wrinkles in the pricey trousers vanishing apologetically. Expensive, polished leather boots slunk meekly across soft midnight carpet to prostrate themselves at his feet, the tiny silver buttons undoing as if touched by invisible hands. He fixed his hair, using some gel to slick it back and donning a waistcoat and a jacket cut in the highest fashion of the time. He was alert now, fixing his necktie and tucking a pristine green silk handkerchief in his pocket. It was first-class, the garments well-tailored and almost indecently sophisticated.

 

If his plan worked, it would all be for naught; by three in the morning his hair would be ruined and falling soddenly in his eyes, and his clothes would be ripped and icy, shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows in his role as a shocked survivor, but it was all part of the act. And if he really had to wonder, maybe he enjoyed the pretence of normality. His duty was to watch and pull strings and be negligent, and he did it well when the world called upon him.

 

Finally turning, The Architect checked his appearance once more in the mirror before taking a shining top-hat from on top of his chair and spinning, as if showing off the ensemble to an audience at a fashion show. Let it never be said he was without flair or showmanship.

 

And the Room blinked, and The Architect kicked the door shut as he left, pulling the mummer’s mask, the façade, back in to place. It was all a play, really, and he was just setting the stage and creating the scenery. The world needed tragedy as it did comedy, and he was just the poor player forced by duty to stalk his shadow onto the stage. The infinite outcome engineer, carrying on and on until kingdom come.

 

He slipped the watch into his pocket, tucking the leather case with his binoculars and a screwdriver under his elbow. 

 

It was time to go and sink an unsinkable ship.

* * *

It was too far, too fast, too high. She’d said that once, hadn’t she? _Five feet of water, fifty-thousand metre cliff._ She would strike; land in a ghastly parody of a falling comet at the end. Whether it was sea or concrete at the bottom she didn’t know, but at terminal velocity they’d be the same anyway, and there would be one brief flash of fire behind her eyelids before she would blink out of being. A grisly end, but not altogether unexpected. It was better than dying on her knees before a false god, better than letting herself tumble any further through the cracks and be torn apart in the inner workings of Existence.

 

She wouldn’t say she was prideful. She just clung tight to the few scraps of dignity she had, guarded them jealously. But she’d have swallowed her pride, abandoned it all to hope for a third option. No such option existed. It was a do-or-die moment. Fight or flight, _fight or flight_.

 

And in her mind- the two voices in her head, the voices of dead brethren, are screaming and screaming, blasting at her eardrums. Her chest is tight, the death-rattle of each breath not quite drowning out the pounding of her pulse thumping through her veins. Louder and louder, chasing. Fight or flight. _Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Falling, flying._

 

 _She’s finally achieving her mastery over the upper atmosphere_ , they tell her, one praising, one scornful. Was it voices, was it instinct? It’s like a story, the same old story, and she can recite it verbatim. One driven mad by his own reflexes. One pulled down slowly into it as if into sleep. And there was her, who Watched and used their lunacy to keep a semblance of sanity over her own head. She hadn’t wanted to use them as her shield, as her wings, she mused, and there was shame deep down in the cowed and slightly sheepish part of her, rarely acknowledged, that was more than a mere mortal.

 

Fight or fly. Sink or be sunk. Swimming wasn’t an option; she’d fallen far below- or was it above?- the waters long ago. She’d lost track now. The seconds stretched into minutes, drew themselves taut and snapped like the ping of a rubber band, thinking awhile, and speeding up. Her eyes shut; long lashes over bright irises like feathers over a fire.

 

_Fly-fight-fly-fight-flyfightflyfight_ _flyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyflyfy_ _!_

 

The woman with the amber eyes turned in the darkness like a rearing snake, a horse breaking free, a lion springing from the den. She crashed heavily sideways through the wide window, shards of mirrored glass embedding in her skin like fading stars in an early-morning sky. She’d taken instinct literally, shut her eyes in half panic-dread and three-parts numbed, sharp ecstasy. It was a swan-dive, she wouldn’t attempt to spread her wings; the running was almost over. And she whooped as she fell, laughed freely with eyes squeezed shut and a manic grin on her face.

 

She was freefalling now, gracelessly, gracefully, the useless feathers trailing behind her in the air like careless words as she soared too close to the sun below, too near to the vicious tempest of saline above. The wind tugged at her, grasped the tattered coat, and pulled at her frozen limbs as if it was trying fruitlessly to help her remain airborne. Up or down, the heavens or high water- she couldn’t tell them apart, but it made little difference.

 

She laughed as she lost the fight against the laws of gravity and motion, melting-hot wax scorching burning trails on bare and wind-blistered shoulders as the wings fell away piece by piece, the memory of the weight of a legend on her shoulders. She laughed. It was like something in a poem, in an ancient epic where the only meanings you can take literally are the figurative ones.

 

She released a harsh breath, pulling oxygen once more into her lungs.

 

She let the shield drop, abandoned hope, clung to the few unsullied memories and untainted dreams she still held with a kind of desperate, weary resignation. She plunged, high on terror, teeth bared to above, and the whole world shivered at the sight. She wasn’t sorry, and the entirety of creation was free to know it.

 

  _Icarus laughed as she fell._

 

Because, for one glorious, shining, golden moment, before the laws of physics took hold- for one moment of haloed celestial bliss, the idyllic calm and clarity before the inevitable crash and burn; the final bow before that final blow, that last inescapable plunge into the blackening waves- it was a distant memory, but there, nonetheless.

 

Icarus _flew_.

* * *

 

Jack turned to Katie as soon as they were out of Rudyard’s sight, the happiness in her eyes dimming and being replaced by concern.  

 

 “Kate.” She sighed, looking tired and old and so, so weary that Katie had the urge to reach across and hug her. Jack didn’t look fearful, but it was well-known that the blonde rarely displayed fear on her face.  Instead, she slowly clenched and flexed her hands in her lap, each movement making her knuckles turn into pale starbursts against tanned, weathered skin.

 

“Jack. What’s got you so worried? Haven’t seen you like this since the Gertrude Bell incident.” said Katie, her smile tightening and eyes narrowing, fingertips tapping the steering-wheel as if she was unsure what to do with her hands.

 

“Katie,” Jack said again. “Kate- Katie. It’s just…” and she trailed off, looking wretchedly out of the window as the streets flashed by. They were coasting along Greencoat Place, and Jack’s deep sea-green eyes were worried, her face scrunched, her eyebrows furrowed. Those eyes had seen much more than any mortal eyes had a right to see. She slipped her sunglasses back on top of her head, using one of the arms to scratch an itch behind her ears, and let out a heavy breath. “I think I’m tracking an Anomaly, and it’s awfully close to you and Rudyard. It’s closing on London; getting closer and closer, and it’s a powerful one. I’m seeing timeskips, and dual event-fluctuations, and- hell, Kate. It looks like a Sleepwalker.”

 

Katie was silent, and then-

 

“Well, shit.”

 

Sleepwalkers were creatures of more myth than substance, held in an awed and cynical view by most of those aware of Reality’s Gaps. They occurred in only a few instances, instances where a tear in a timeline had stitched itself back together wonky. The resultant overlapping would produce an Anomaly, the closest word to it in English being _zombie_.

 

Simply put, an individual’s death would be undone. The corpse would rise, would forget about death. And this would spawn an Anomaly so huge that it would be like a black hole.

 

Time and Reality would stretch and blur. Physics would become meaningless. All of existence could be torn asunder if a Sleepwalker ran unchecked, the forces of nature turning on themselves as if to try and smoke the glitch out and undo the infection it caused. Life would sicken and die as the paradoxes formed, time dragged out of its setting and into a new, twisted path.

 

Music continued to blare from the radio. It was Coldplay now; and Jack recognised it as part of a compilation she’d sent Katie maybe some ten years ago. A car swung around a corner a little too fast, another vintage machine, and the Capri’s driver rammed the heel of her palm harshly down on the horn.

 

“ _Watch the bleedin’ road_!” Jack yelled, rolling down the window to berate the speedster driving what they recognised as a positively antique Bentley. Nineteen-twenty-something, if her instinct served her correctly. “Jeezus, somebody’s gotta have a lot of cash to keep that thing running!”

 

Katie inhaled. “Now, _that’s_ a car- still got nothin’ on mine, of course. Maybe there’s a show on or something.” She said, running her hand soothingly along the dashboard as the car let out a dissatisfied hum. She turned to look at Jack, taking her hands off the wheel and spreading them like a magician showing that his sleeves are empty. She waved with a flourish, a piece of dramatics left over from the few times they’d run together, blazing, through history. And the words fell from her mouth like molten silver; old words, magic words from long ago, dust-coated but still good and filled to the brim with conviction.

 

“I’m the queen of these pavements, Jack. I’ll burn this bridge when I get to it.”

 

She sighed, settling her hands on the wheel, and coasting the car to a near-stop as they finally hit heavy traffic. As soon as they got onto the quieter lanes and roads beyond the M25, Katie would be able to drive as fast as she wanted; the speed-cameras always seemed to look the other way. She leaned over and ruffled Jack’s hair in an easy act of camaraderie, her face settling into a disgruntled and vaguely mournful pout.  

 

“You know, I was considering retirement. Looks like that won’t be happening for a while yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First person to spot the Good Omens reference gets a cookie!


	21. 15: Glass-House, Sledgehammer.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world keeps turning. An Audi suffers an unfortunate fate. Two idiots get absolutely smashed.

Within a few hours, Jack and Katie were sat in a moderately-clean hotel room, munching on pizza and potato wedges. Jack had snagged a few drinks from the mini-fridge and was now explaining something, gesturing with a pizza slice in a vague and yet somehow understandable way that signified that she was well over the threshold of _tipsy_ and on her way to becoming _roaring drunk_.

 

“You shouldn’t be drinking, Jack.” Said Katie, as  Jack motioned towards the door with a potato chip in hand and accidentally knocked over a little tub of garlic-‘n’-herb dip.

 

“Shuddup. I’m over eighteen. Older’n you. I can do what I want.”

 

The effect of this statement was lost slightly when the blonde hiccupped, and nearly fell face forward into a box of fried chicken strips. Katie sighed, as Jack laid her head in her lap and yawned.

 

She groaned and moved, shoving Jack away when the blonde tried to steal her pizza, and giving the older girl a look of sly contempt when Jack stuck her lip out sadly. It was experience that told her that Jack was a clingy drunk, and would act like a petulant toddler until she fell asleep and woke with a bear of a headache the next morning. She made a mental note to leave out a glass of water for her.*

 

“sh-sho, y’know, if this all goesh- y’know- upside-down, then I don’t know what the- er- the chickensh’ll do-“ Jack half-slurred, and Katie prised an as-yet-unopened can from her grasp. It was one of those bizarre canned cocktails that one can buy from certain off-licences and corner shops, and it appeared that it contained orange juice, lemonade, cherry syrup, and vodka. Experimentally, she popped it open and poured it into a tumbler, and took a cautious sip.

 

“I dunno- the point I’m tryna make iss- Bloody stupid chickens!“ Jack continued, trying and failing to think of a point that made any kind of sense. Katie thought for a second, taking another mouthful of the concoction in her glass. It was actually rather agreeable.

 

 

Of course, the night ended with Jack unconscious, and Katie feeling pleasantly buzzed, the dusty beige carpet littered with several empty cans and bottles, and an undoubtedly high minibar bill. Jack was curled up on the couch, and Katie fell asleep leaning against it.

 

 _It was nice_ , she mused as she fell asleep, _to be among friends once again_. It was a lonely business, being a time-traveller, and sometimes she just needed that pointed out to her every once in a while.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 ** _*Katie was used to alcohol: being able to handle the small-beer of the medieval to early modern period was a prerequisite to safe European time travel. But, after a rather embarrassing incident involving a feudal lord's stock of honeyed mead, a crate of twentieth-century whiskey, two reindeer, a funeral pyre, and a pigpen, she had sworn off anything stronger than rum. Yes, the Ancient Romans had had some lovely wine, and they really did now how to party back when good old Ptolemy was on the throne, but never would she become so booze-sodden that she lost consciousness. Not again._**  

* * *

 

She handed him a mug. The porcelain was chipped, covered in blue-and-green pinstripes, and the liquid inside was an odd, rusty red-brick colour. He extricated an arm from within the layers of patchwork and old duck-down quilts drawn around his shivery form and took it, the steam curling into his face as she curled her palms around a thermos-cup and sat down next to him. The old tartan blanket around her shoulders swished behind her like a cape.

 

“What’s this?” he asked, stirring the drink.

 

“Tea, dash of milk, enough sugar to stun a horse.” She said, sipping her own drink. “Nothing fancy, just ordinary PG-Tips.”

 

He hummed, softly. “I prefer Typhoo, to be honest.” And then he gulped the tea, and gagged on the strong taste. “Gah! How many teabags did you use?”

 

She twitched her head somewhat sheepishly in the direction of the kitchen. “Four. But trust me, it’ll keep you awake better than coffee ever will. Tea’s got a really high caffeine content. I learnt that in my student years.”

 

“What’d you study?” He asked, tilting his head to the side and frowning.

 

“Oh-ho-ho!  No, no, my dear, you’ve gotta guess.” She chided, and he only sighed.

 

“No clue. Go on, tell me.”

 

“British History.”

 

His answering laugh caused several birds to fly from their roosts in the darkened trees, and they moved closer on the Haven’s creaky little back-porch and watched the sun rise.

 

* * *

 

Jack woke early. This was not unusual, but the crick in her neck and the pounding in her head could only mean one thing. She had a hang-over. With a practiced eye she spotted a paracetamol tablet and a tumbler of water laid on the little table beside the sofa she laid on, and swallowed the pill without a second thought.

 

And she finally decided to get a proper look around the little room Katie had rented for the week. It was painted a sickly magnolia colour, the furniture the cheap flat-pack kind that might’ve been left out for the dustmen by the local Oxfam or War On Want shop. The dressing-table and wardrobe were scratched and worn, Formica coatings peeling. The radiator rattled, and water gurgled from a tangle of tarnished copper pipes which snaked down one wall, disappearing behind the skirting-board. Further exploration revealed that a door on the left led to a connected bathroom with murky green tiles and a chipped sink. Jack had stayed in worse places.

“Charming.” she muttered, catching sight of a large, dead spider in the bottom of the bath. Jack shuddered. Gingerly, she wrapped her hand in toilet-paper and picked it up, opening the window and slinging the dead arachnid swiftly out. The water glass was drained and rinsed in the little sink, left to dry on the side, and Jack stretched and set her rumpled clothes to rights.

 

She checked the rather extortionate minibar prices again; it would be cheaper to buy replacement drinks at a supermarket and restock it herself. If she got in and out before Housekeeping came around to clean the place up, nobody would be any the wiser.

 

There was a tiny balcony, and the blonde moved to watch the city wake up. The air was cold. Unlike Katie (who still slept in a nest of blankets in the corner, her hair fanned out around her like a halo), Jack travelled the world. She didn’t quite share the same enthusiasm for London as her friend did, and before Eve had phoned her she’d been taking a break from shop-keeping and had been water-skiing in Puerto Rico. The shop keys were tucked in the front pocket of her bag, and in her jacket pocket was the rusty old Key she used to jump from Time to Time. She’d made the thing herself.

 

Setting a plate of cold pizza on the tiny table the balcony held, she flicked a battered silver Zippo-lighter and lit up a cigarette. She put it to her lips and took a drag, and sighed, and took another. Smoking was a luxury as far as she was concerned, one of the pleasures of the world she couldn’t quite live without. She’d thought about quitting, and had done for a time, but the stress of the last few decades had gotten her back into the habit.

 

A few minutes later, the butt dropped to the terracotta tiles, and she ground it out with the toe of her shoe. Jack wolfed down the pizza, cleaned the plate, and got herself another slice. It would be a while before Katie woke up.

 

* * *

 

 

Ed was driving along in a foul mood. He’d had a meeting that day, and it hadn’t gone well at all; and now his job hung in the balance. Normally, being behind the wheel of his Audi helped, but today was not exactly a normal day. The stretch of road he was on was quiet and empty, which was unusual for London, but he didn’t question it.

 

There was a sudden, loud rev of an engine, and a sleek black car came up to cruise alongside him. It was well kept, but obviously old, and he eyed it with palpable disdain, a mocking smile stretching across his lips. _The owner probably couldn’t afford a newer car_ , he thought, rather spitefully. _Not like his gleaming silver coupe._

 

The owner, a young-looking brunette, noticed his look of contempt at her fossil of a vehicle, and gave him a look of outrage. He snickered, and- wait- did the other driver just growl at him? At the same time, the passenger, a rather pretty blonde, looked fearfully across the lane-divider, peering at his Audi with apprehension.

 

The brunette murmured something, and the blonde buckled her seatbelt; how she hadn’t got caught not wearing one, he couldn’t understand; as the driver took her hands briefly off the wheel to stretch and crack her knuckles as if warming up.

 

The road was quiet. If he wasn’t mistaken, she wanted a race. And a vicious speeding match was just what the doctor ordered. Going Go-karting had always helped him de-stress- and surely an actual competition wouldn’t be that different?

 

Oh, it was _on_.

 

* * *

 

Katie growled at the driver of the car alongside them, who was eyeballing her beloved Capri with barely-hidden scorn and snickering into an overpriced latte that likely tasted like dishwater. Her car was antique, nothing like the swish silver job he drove that had likely cost more than her family earned in a decade, but it was _hers_. They just didn’t make them like this anymore. No other car in history was like it.

 

How dare he. The Capri was a _classic_. A racing-class classic at that, the champion of numberless rallies and drag-races.

 

Her hands clenched on the steering wheel. “What a prat.” She murmured. “Car like that would crumple like paper if it crashed. Probably has zero handling.”

 

Jack’s eyes flicked across to the other side of the road; to a man in a shiny silver sports car eyeing Katie with a mocking grin. Katie slammed a tape into the cassette player, cracking her knuckles and stretching as _The Miracle of Joey Ramone_ began to blast from the speakers with a slight hiss of static, and the car shuddered. The Capri had obviously picked up on her mood. Competition was good; it kept her on her toes, at least.

 

“Kate, don’t do anything rash!” Jack muttered, eyes flicking between Katie and the flash businessman in the silver Audi, who was obviously harbouring serious delusions about his driving skills. Said speedster shifted into gear; the universal symbol for a race, and Katie shook out her shoulders and watched as Jack clicked her seatbelt on with a look of abject terror.

 

“He challenged me, Hallowell- I didn’t start this. Oh, _it is on!_ ”  she hissed with a dangerous grin, tightening her grip on the wheel.

The Capri’s engine revved, and Katie found eye-contact with her opponent, watching as he smirked and slammed his foot down on the accelerator; shooting ahead like a bullet at what must’ve been more that eighty miles-per-hour. The other driver had a look of triumph on his face, which was replaced with a gobsmacked look of shock when the Capri leapt forward, outstripping him almost instantly and leaving him in the dust. His car may have been newer, but Katie and her Ford had been skilfully defying the speed limit for years, since before their opponent had been born.

 

It turned out that driving an Audi at faster than eighty in the maze of motorways connected to the M25 was a bad idea, when he got pulled over by the police for speeding, and the two girls laughed as they thundered along the road at well over a hundred miles per hour. They were burning daylight; had places to be and people to talk to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter for now... hopefully, i'll update soon...

**Author's Note:**

> Next Time: We meet Rudyard S. Barnes.


End file.
